


Black Pride

by AlexHazza



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, M/M, No Incest, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Obsessive Behavior, POV Sirius Black, Possessive Behavior, Pre-Slash, Pureblood Politics (Harry Potter), Pureblood Society (Harry Potter), Sirius Black Free from Azkaban, Sirius Black is still a Black, Sirius Black's relationships with dark magic and his mother are complicated, Sirius Black-centric, Sirius Black/Jonathan Rosier, Sirius befriends a Rosier, Slow Burn, Sort Of, The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, Touchy-Feely, Walburga Black has a heart, and he learns to appreciate it, and they're kind of intense and weird about each other, eventually, freud would have a field day, the Blacks are twisted, very deep down
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-04
Updated: 2019-02-24
Packaged: 2019-07-25 00:15:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 64,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16186133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlexHazza/pseuds/AlexHazza
Summary: The portrait of Cygnus Black I that hung in the Ministry reported that her firstborn had been sent to Azkaban without any trial whatsoever.It made Walburga furious. Not onHisbehalf, of course, but because of the utter disrespect shown to a scion of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. How dare they? If she let them get away with it, then next time those filthy blood traitors might think it was perfectly fine to treat that way aworthymember of the House of Black. After all, it had set a precedent. A bad precedent. It mustn’t be allowed.Or,Walburga Black saves Sirius from Azkaban, and  it changes everything.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> [Chinese translation](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17459168/chapters/41112434)  
>  by MissSirius26  
> 

 

SIRIUS BLACK ARRESTED FOR BETRAYING THE POTTERS AND KILLING TWELVE MUGGLES AND PETTIGREW.

Walburga Black stared at the headline. 

Then she read the article. 

She reread it, but it still made little sense. He couldn't have possibly betrayed that wretched friend of his. The mere notion made her scoff in disbelief. James Potter was—had been—a typical foolish, ill-mannered Gryffindor, but her blood traitor of a son had been pathetically attached to Potter. There was absolutely no way he would betray Potter to the Dark Lord, no matter how often she—no matter how often  _Orion_ had wished his former son would see the error of his ways and stop associating with those blood traitors. 

The rest of the article made just as little sense. Killing twelve muggles? That muggle-lover? 

Walburga pursed her lips, thinking of the ugly row they'd had about muggles and mudbloods before the Traitor stormed out of the house—to never return again and to _die_ for her. 

No. There was no conceivable way he had done anything the article claimed he had. Even killing that Pettigrew creature was suspect. Walburga didn't remember her firstborn ever having particular fondness for that half-blood filth—she had always thought Pettigrew had been more of a follower of his than a friend—and yet it was unbelievable that he would kill that pathetic boy. Not because he wasn’t capable of killing; no. Despite his claims to the contrary, Sirius Orion was entirely capable of cruelty. He just thought himself better than _them_. He liked to think of himself as “good,” unlike the other Blacks. He would never do something like killing one of his precious Gryffindor friends. No. Something was amiss.

Walburga glared at the article one more time before sitting up on her bed. “Kreacher!”

There was a loud crack.

“The Mistress summons Kreacher?” the elf said, bowing.

“Robe me,” she ordered, standing up. “I'm going out.”

Something like surprise flickered over the old house elf’s face. She knew why Kreacher was surprised. She hadn't left the house in months, and she hadn't left her bed in weeks. She’d had a cold—that was the reason why it was so hard to get up in the mornings. She wasn't depressed, no matter what Lucretia said. Her husband was dead, her only son was dead, and her—the Traitor had been as good as dead to her for five years. She was alone, but she was entirely fine. Walburga Black didn't _do_ depressed. 

She stood unmoving as the house elf’s magic robed her in mere seconds in a burgundy dress and black velvet robes. 

She looked in the mirror and saw a regal woman with pale skin and sharp gray eyes. She was fifty-five, middle-aged by Wizarding standards, but she looked younger. Her hair was still pitch black. She had never been as conventionally beautiful as Orion—and He—had been, but she had always been rather striking. She was glad to see that the strain of the last few years hadn't shown on her face. She couldn't afford showing any weakness to the lesser people. 

As Kreacher finished working on her hair, Walburga turned and left her bedroom. 

In the hall, she paused, listening to…silence. The house was so very silent. Something in her chest clenched, a dull ache the source of which she couldn't pinpoint. It must be the lingering cold. 

Walburga entered the library and stopped in front of the family tapestry. She stared at the picture of her husband (dead), then at the picture of her son (dead) before moving her gaze to the scorched mark where His picture had once been. 

She stared at it.

It was impossible to completely remove a Black from the Black Family Tree, no matter what they told the outsiders. A Black was a Black until their death. The Family Tree was based on blood. That was how it knew when a new Black was born or when a Black died. Removing one from the tapestry was impossible. They could only mask it.

Walburga pressed her wand against the scorched mark and murmured the spell. The illusion disappeared.

She stared hungrily at the handsome face of her firstborn, despising herself for the way her throat constricted. Traitor. He was nothing but a filthy traitor. Traitor to the ideals of their family, traitor to their family. 

She hadn't seen him in five years. 

“I should let you rot in Azkaban,” she bit off, glaring at his picture. “It's all you deserve for abandoning—” The lump in her throat became painful and she cut herself off, blinking the tears away furiously. Merlin, this was pathetic. He didn't deserve her tears. She should feel nothing. He wasn't her son. Her good son—her only son—was dead, dying for the right cause. That ungrateful traitor meant nothing for her. If he was unlawfully imprisoned, then that was what he _deserved_ for choosing blood traitors over his family. If he was abandoned by his blood traitors, now he knew what she felt like five years ago when he abandoned her. Served him right.

Locking her jaw, Walburga restored the illusion and turned away from the tapestry. She would do nothing for him. 

Let him rot in Azkaban.

 

***

 

Her resolve lasted a week.

Walburga hadn't seriously thought that he would be abandoned by the so-called  Light side. She had expected at least the filthy muggle-lover Dumbledore to demand a trial. But the portrait of Phineas Black that hung in Hogwarts reported that Dumbledore seemed to believe the reports and had no intention of getting involved. The portrait of Cygnus Black I that hung in the Ministry reported that no one had made any inquiries—and that her firstborn had been sent to Azkaban without any trial whatsoever.

It made her furious. Not on His behalf, of course, but because of the utter disrespect shown to a scion of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. How dare they? If she let them get away with it, then next time they might think it was perfectly fine to treat that way a worthy member of the House of Black. After all, it had set a precedent. A bad precedent. It mustn’t be allowed.

“Kreacher, robe me,” Walburga ordered and waited impatiently as she was clothed in another set of expensive, fine robes.

This time she didn't go to the Black Family Tree. She went to the Floo room and traveled to the Ministry. 

It was full of disgusting mudbloods and blood traitors, as always, and Walburga barely kept her sneer off her face. She had to admit that she hadn’t entirely approved of the way the Dark Lord had chosen to conquer the Wizarding world and restore the supremacy of Purebloods—everything would have been so much easier to accomplish with politics, without spilling unnecessarily the blood of Purebloods—but at moments like this, all she wanted was for the filth to disappear and stop _touching_ her.

“I want an audience with Crouch,” she told the Crouch’s secretary.

The girl who looked barely out of Hogwarts (did she know Him?), gave her a distracted look. “Mr. Crouch is busy, Ma’am. I can make you an appointment in four days—”

“Do I look like I am willing to wait four days?” she gritted out. Did she not know who she was speaking to?

This time the girl gave her a longer look. Perhaps she finally recognized the Black looks, or perhaps she could simply sense how much superior to her Walburga was, because she said, “I can try to get you an audience if it's really urgent, Ma’am.”

“It is,” she bit off. “Tell him Walburga Black is here and he will see me at once.”

The girl’s eyes widened a little. 

She stood and disappeared into Crouch’s office.

Walburga waited, standing tall and proud.

She didn't have to wait long.

“Mr. Crouch will see you, Ma’am.”

Walburga went inside.

Crouch was seated behind the huge desk, a deep frown on his face. “Walburga? Please take a seat. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

She didn't appreciate being addressed so familiarly. She and Bartemius Crouch were hardly friends. Crouch’s mother belonged to one of minor Black branches, a distant relation, but the Crouches’ blood wasn't as pure as the Blacks’. Walburga was positive there had been a mudblood several generations back, something the Crouches tried to hide, but she knew everything where Blood was concerned. Not to mention that Bartemius Crouch associated with blood traitors, openly condemning supporters of the Dark Lord and unnecessarily harsh toward Dark wizards.

He was no friend of hers.

Walburga didn't sit. “You are not an idiot, Bartemius. You know why I am here.” 

Crouch gave her a wary look, something pinched and stubborn about his expression.  “I was entirely within my rights to arrest Sirius Bla—”

“Do not say that name,” she snapped.

Crouch stared at her. “It’s been years, Walburga. Four, five? Sirius—”

“Do not say his name,” she bit off again. She knew she was being irrational. She could hardly expect Ministry officials not to say the Traitor’s name. But she couldn't bear hearing it. Her son was dead. Dead. 

Crouch gave her a puzzled look. “I've heard that his name was forbidden to say among the Blacks, but Merlin, woman! It's been—”

“I don't care how long it's been,” she gritted out. “I wouldn't expect a Crouch to understand our affairs. But that's irrelevant right now.” She narrowed her eyes. “Let's talk about relevant matters. Since when can the Ministry send people to Azkaban without as much as a trial?”

A muscle ticked in Crouch’s jaw. “It was a war. During the war, the DMLE has the authority to send dangerous criminals straight to Azkaban, especially in most obvious cases like Black’s. The man is a Death Eater. He was caught at the crime scene—”

“Let me rephrase the question,” Walburga said, her voice very even. Only people who knew her well knew that she was at her most dangerous when she was seemingly calm. Crouch wasn't among them. “Since when does the Ministry have the authority to send a son of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black to Azkaban without as much as a trial?”

Crouch gave her a mulish look. “He's disowned. He doesn't have that protection—”

“If you bothered to check,” Walburga hissed. “You would have found that he’d never been officially disowned. In fact, Arcturus Black still has him listed as the heir.” It was something Walburga didn't understand, but she’d never pretended to understand her father-in-law’s reasons. The old man was stubborn as a mule and impossible to get hold of. She hadn't seen him since Orion’s funeral. The only reason Walburga knew that the Traitor was still listed as Arcturus’s heir was because Narcissa had visited her, asking if she could convince Arcturus to make her son the heir. Walburga had promised the girl nothing, of course. It infuriated her that the Traitor was still the Black heir—he would hardly appreciate such an honor—but the thought of a Malfoy brat inheriting the title was unthinkable.  The Malfoys were upstarts compared to the Blacks.

Crouch swallowed visibly at the news, a bead of sweat running down his forehead. “I didn't know.”

She glared him down. “Now you do and you will transfer him from Azkaban into the Ministry’s holding cells where he will wait for his trial. Immediately.”

Crouch glared. “What are you hoping to accomplish? He will be just sent back after his trial! He's a Death Eater and murderer!”

Walburga met his eyes. “I wouldn't be so sure of that.”

Crouch paled. “What? You can't possibly believe…How can you know?” He gave a harsh laugh. “You can't know anything! You haven't seen him in how many years, woman?”

Her lips twisted. “I gave birth to him. There’s no one in the world who knows him better than me.” Not knowing him had never been the issue. She knew him, had seen the first concerning signs long before he'd been sorted into Gryffindor. It had been one of the reasons she'd tried to constrict him and mold him—to make him _better_ —but she had lost that battle. She had lost him.

Pushing her errant thoughts away, Walburga eyed the head of the DMLE. Crouch was a highly ambitious man. She might despise his views on Dark wizards, but she could respect his ambition and drive. She also knew ambitious men were capable of many unsavory things in order to achieve their goals. She could sense that he was already thinking frantically how to save his precious reputation in case she was right.

“One more thing,” she said, smiling nastily. “If something happens to him on the way from Azkaban, you will take his cell in Azkaban yourself.”

Crouch gave her an affronted look. “Who do you think I am?”

“A desperate man,” she said and left, her head held high.

 


	2. Chapter 2

_James’s body in the living room, still and breathless. Hazel eyes wide with fear and horror. His glasses broken beside his motionless hand._

_Lily, on the floor beside the crib. Like a broken doll, beautiful and cold._

_Harry, crying for his mum. Mummy, mum, mama._

Sirius gritted his teeth and whispered frantically, “Innocent, I'm innocent. Innocent.”

After a while of focusing on that single thought, he felt the soul-suckers glide away, losing their interest in him. 

Sirius laughed, but it came out more like a sob. He was innocent, but it didn't exactly matter, did it? No one cared, except him and the Dementors. It had been seven days. He had been so sure that Dumbledore or Remus or Moody would come, to hear his side of the story, but there had been no one. He’d been thrown into Azkaban without a trial, and apparently no one gave a damn. How could they think he was a traitor? How could they think that he could betray—

His throat closed up and he squeezed his eyes shut as they burned with tears. James…Had Jamie been alive, he would have never left him in Azkaban, he would have never believed that bullshit. 

But James was dead. Lily was dead. Harry…Baby Harry was an orphan now. At least Sirius could console himself that Harry was safe. Frank and Alice would take care of him.

Sirius clenched his jaw as a voice at the back of his mind whispered that Frank and Alice were Aurors, that they could have easily made inquires about Sirius if they wanted to. If they cared.

Apparently they didn't. Nor did Remus. Nor did Moody. Nor did Dumbledore. Nor did the rest of the Order. He'd called them friends. Were they?

The sound of multiple footsteps made him lift his head. Sirius straightened, a flicker of hope flaring inside him. Maybe his friends had finally come for him. Maybe they—

Two guards opened the cell and grabbed him roughly. “Walk,” one of them grunted, shoving him forward.

“What's happening?” Sirius said as they left the cell. “Am I being released?”

“Shut your mouth.”

“You have to tell me something—”

The other guard shoved at him. “We don't have to tell anything to a Death Eater scum. Your blue blood doesn't make you less of a scum, no matter what the law says.”

Sirius blinked, completely confused now. His blue blood? Surely they couldn't mean…

His heart thumped in his chest as he remembered the lessons Orion had drilled into him when he'd been a child, lessons he'd pretended to forget.

_Your position is privileged. You are a scion—moreover, the first son in the direct line—of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. That means you have a certain degree of protection granted by the Wizengamot. You can't be arrested and put on trial unless there's explicit evidence of your breaking the law. Members of the Noble and Most Ancient Houses do not stand trial for no reason—that would damage our reputation and standing in the Wizarding World._

It was one of the many boring lectures of Orion Black that essentially conveyed the same message: the Blacks were better than everyone else, blah blah blah, and Sirius should feel privileged and thankful to be born to them.

It was a conversation Sirius honestly hadn't thought of in years. It had been the last thing on his mind when the Aurors arrested him and shipped him off to Azkaban.

It still didn't make sense.

He was a Black in name only. He'd been disowned, blasted from the Family Tree personally by his bitch of a mother. She had informed him of it—gleefully—in a Howler he'd received a week after he'd run away from home. The Potters had looked horrified—and pitying—as they listened to Walburga’s voice yelling at him about what a disappointment and waste of space he was. She had finished the Howler with a quiet,

_I never want to lay my eyes on you again._

Sirius didn't know why he still remembered it, the exact words and tone. It had been years. He didn't give a shit about her. He didn't give a shit about whether she wanted to see him or not. He didn't want to see her, either. If he saw her in a hundred years, it would be too soon.

“Who?” Sirius managed in a voice that didn't even sound like his own. Not many knew of those archaic laws. Dumbledore? Could Dumbledore know?  Dumbledore’s family wasn't even Noble, much less Most Ancient, but he was the Chief Warlock. He knew the laws. But Dumbledore wouldn't have used that particular law to get him out of Azkaban—the headmaster knew that Sirius was disowned by his family.

So who?

One of the guards made a scornful sound. “You can thank your mummy dearest. I've heard the bitch ripped Crouch a new one.”

Sirius stumbled over nothing, his eyes wide. 

Was that a joke? His mo— _she_ would never do it. She was the last person he'd expected to come to his rescue. She didn't give a damn about him. She wouldn't… She wouldn't…

Maybe she believed that Sirius had really betrayed the Potters and was a good little Death Eater, like her other son—like her _perfect_ son. That was the only plausible explanation Sirius could think of. She wouldn't bother with him otherwise. She didn't—he was nothing to her but a walking disappointment. She fucking regretted giving birth to him. She'd told him that herself the last time they talked—yelled at each other. Sirius had never seen her again after that. 

If the guards were right and Walburga Black was actually helping him, that meant she was doing it out of some misguided belief that he'd “seen reason” and became a good little Death Eater like she’d wanted. Not that she had ever _told_ him that she wanted him to become a Death Eater, but Sirius was sure it was implied when she praised her precious Regulus for having the “right” kind of friends.

Even thinking about it made his jaw tighten and his fists clench. Sirius hated it, hated that even after all these years, the bitch affected him so much. Regulus was dead, likely killed on some Death Eater raid; Sirius shouldn’t still feel this ugly resentment and anger toward his brother. A good person would feel nothing but sadness and grief—things Sirius had pretended to feel when he'd heard the news. Only Jamie had known that he felt no such thing, at least not at first.

Sirius blamed his blood, the wretched Black blood that coursed through his veins. No matter how hard he tried to be a good person, his Black temper tended to rear its ugly head at worst possible times, making him vindictive and spiteful, against his better judgment. Like that near-disaster with Moony and Snape, when his vindictiveness nearly killed Snivellus and made Moony a murderer. He'd regretted his behavior later, feeling guilty as hell, but at the time he’d felt nothing but glee that finally Snivellus would get what he deserved. Similarly, upon hearing the news of his brother’s death, Sirius just felt validated: now  _she_  knew that he'd been right all along and Regulus’s friends hadn't been the “right” sort at all if they got him killed. 

Sirius almost laughed. She had been right after all, hadn't she? Wormtail had turned out to be worse than any Death Eater. She would probably tell him _I told you_ so if she knew that the rat had backstabbed them and framed Sirius.

Merlin, why did he still let her poison everything in his life? Even his good memories of his little brother were tainted by the resentment and envy Sirius had felt every time he had seen Regulus receive sweets and letters brought by their mother’s owl. He'd hated it, hated that it still hurt, even though he had been the one to run away from that toxic house—from _her._  

The mere thought of facing her again after all these years made Sirius’s temper flare and his heart speed up. Goddammit, no one could get under his skin like her. She had the unique ability to make him feel like a worthless bug under her shoes, a total disappointment. Not that Sirius gave a damn about her opinion on him. Screw her. She was a Dark witch with no principles and overinflated sense of self-importance. Why would he care about the opinion of such a horrible person? He didn't.

Setting his jaw, Sirius forced himself to stop thinking about her—at least he tried to. He needed to stop fixating on her. Jamie had always said that he tended to become twitchy and snappish if the subject of Walburga Black came up. Sirius couldn't afford being a short-tempered fool again. If he wanted to never return to his cell, he would need every bit of his rationality to make people hear him out. Because he had little doubt that as soon as she found out that Sirius hadn't actually betrayed the Potters, she would do nothing to help him convince others.

He didn't need her help, anyway.

He didn't need her.

 

***

 

She waited three hours after receiving Crouch’s owl before she headed to the Ministry's holding cells. Crouch’s owl had been short and uninformative. Walburga supposed she could understand the man's distracted state considering the… unpleasant business concerning Crouch Jr and the Lestranges.

Walburga’s lips twisted into a sneer. Although she hardly felt sorry for those blood traitors Longbottoms, her niece got what she deserved for being foolish and reckless in her devotion to the Dark Lord. Frankly, Walburga had always found Bellatrix’s slavish worshipfulness of the Dark Lord distasteful--she was a Black; Blacks were slaves to  _no one_ —so Walburga couldn't say she was upset by Bellatrix’s arrest. Bella was a foolish girl. The Dark Lord was dead. The war was over. What was the point of torturing blood traitors? 

“I'm here to see the detainee in the holding cell #13.”

No one attempted to stop her. Perhaps Crouch had warned them that she was coming. Walburga followed the guard after leaving her wand with the administrator.

The door creaked open.

She went inside and it was shut behind her.

Walburga took a deep breath and then looked at the single occupant of the holding cell.

He looked…he looked just like Orion. She didn't know why she still expected him to look like the sixteen-year-old lanky teenager that had run away from home. He was a man now, a young one but already completely grown into his features. The wretched boy had grown up to be as incredibly handsome as his father had been—more handsome. More striking. She could see her own features in the line of his dark brows and the curve of his mouth. His gray eyes were as distastefully expressive as ever, betraying his every emotion. There were dark circles under them, and he was too pale and thin after a week in Azkaban.

They stared at each other in tense silence.

Walburga was almost vibrating with tension, with the effort to stay still and not to do something shameful she would regret later. He wasn't her son. He was the Traitor. 

“I'm not a Death Eater,” he said at last, his voice hoarse. He raised his chin and looked at her defiantly. “I didn't betray James. Sorry to disappoint, but I'm still a disgusting blood traitor.”

Walburga gave him a flat look. “I didn't think for a moment that you changed your ways.”

He blinked, his brows furrowing. For a moment, he looked like the little boy he'd once been. His lips curled into a sneer, but there was something uncertain about it. “Then why? Why did you bother?”

Why indeed.

It was the question that had been plaguing her mind for a week.  

 _Because you're still a Black._

 _Because you’re mine._

She said neither of those foolish things.

Walburga smiled nastily. “Where are your precious Gryffindor friends now?”

He glowered at her, an angry flush appearing on his cheekbones. “So you did it to gloat? Why am I not surprised?”

Her lips thinned. “I did it to show you that being a Black is  _everything_ , you ungrateful boy. Have any of your blood traitors even tried to help you?”

His jaw clenched. He said nothing.

Walburga nodded. “You can deny it all you want, but you know I'm right. You know they did nothing for you. They didn't care about your fate, too quick to believe the completely laughable notion that you betrayed James Potter. They never trusted you—”

“Because of my surname!” Sirius growled out. “If I weren't a Black, they wouldn't have been so quick to believe that shit!”

Walburga laughed. “But that just proves my point, doesn't it? You never belonged with them, not truly. You always stood apart. Because you're a Black and they are  _worms_.” She scoffed. “No doubt they could always feel they were inferior to you, so they were glad to have a reason to believe the worst about you. It was just an opportunity for them to feel better about their pathetic selves—”

“Shut up, shut up, SHUT UP!” he bellowed, breathing hard. “It's not true! They were—they are—my friends!”

Walburga made a show of looking around. “Then where are they, Sirius Orion?”

He said nothing, looking at her with a mix of pure hatred and something else—something she was trying to ignore.

“Are you done gloating?” he bit off. “Then fuck off!”

Walburga didn't move. She couldn't deny that she felt…dissatisfied. Seeing him upset didn't give her the satisfaction she'd desired. She also couldn't deny that seeing him made her feel more alive than she'd had in years.

“Why are you still here?” he gritted out, turning his back to her.

Walburga stared at the proud line of his shoulders and back, and thought,

 _He's a Black through and through._

It was something she'd never been in denial about. Despite his traitorous ideas, he was everything a true Black was: magically powerful, proud, arrogant, stubborn and temperamental, with a hard, ruthless edge. Regulus, for all his loyalty to the family, had been so unlike his brother—soft, malleable, reserved—that sometimes Walburga had trouble believing that he was her son at all. When the boys had been little, Orion used to accuse her of playing favorites and Walburga had always denied it. But no matter how much it pained her to admit it, she knew her husband had been right. She had been too indulgent with her firstborn, which had led him to believe that he could do whatever he wanted without any consequences. He'd grown up believing himself invincible. Perhaps if she had been strict with him, Sirius wouldn't have  _dared_  be sorted into Gryffindor. He would have begged the Hat to be sorted into Slytherin like Regulus did later (Walburga had found out about that distasteful fact from Kreacher, to whom Regulus had confided in). But Sirius Orion was too proud to beg for anything. He’d always had a backbone. Even Azkaban didn't seem to have changed that.

Part of her was irritated by that. Part of her, the part she was trying to suppress, felt  _proud._ Merlin, she was disgusted with herself. 

“Was it Pettigrew who framed you?” she said.

His shoulders stiffened. Slowly, he turned around and looked at her, and his expression made her immensely uncomfortable. It reminded her of the way he used to look at her when he had been little: like she could accomplish everything she put her mind into. She could, but that was beside the point. He had no business looking at her that way, not after he left h—the  _family_. She wasn't going to be indulgent with him anymore.

“Yes,” he said hoarsely. “He framed me and escaped.”

“Pathetic,” Walburga said, sneering. “He isn't a fraction as talented or magically powerful as you.”

His expression became pinched, as if he wasn't sure whether he was being insulted or complimented. 

She wasn't sure, either.

“Well, it looks like he's a lot smarter than me,” he said with a twist of his lips. “I was an idiot who couldn't see what was right under my nose.”

There was a great deal of self-hatred in his tone, and Walburga frowned, disliking it. She was the  _only_  person who was allowed to insult him, who could hurt him.  _Her._ No one else.

“If you allowed the Hat to sort you into Slytherin, you would have been used to looking for other people's ulterior motives and treacherous ways,” she said testily. “Gryffindor turned your natural impulsiveness into stupid recklessness.”

A harsh laugh left his mouth. “Will you ever get over my Sorting? It's been years, Mum.”

They both froze at the word.

He flushed.

Walburga pursed her lips tightly to make them stop trembling. There was a burning sensation in her eyes and a dull ache in her throat that refused to go away. 

She said in a clipped voice, “Do not speak to anyone without a solicitor present. Alastor Durke of 'Durke and Sons' will be here shortly. Tell him everything you know.”

She turned and left while her composure and pride were still somewhat intact.

 _Pathetic_ , she told herself outside, pressing her fingers against her wet eyes. She really was still a foolish woman where he was concerned, wasn't she?

Orion must be laughing at her in his grave.

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

 

Sirius had never been more confused in his life.

True to his mother's word, the old solicitor of the Black family arrived soon after she left and thoroughly interrogated him, all the while treating Sirius with utmost respect, which, frankly, was pretty damn refreshing after the way the Azkaban guards treated him for a week. Sirius was a little ashamed to admit that such deference was something he’d taken for granted in the past—before he left his family. Prongs used to laugh at him for his naturally haughty demeanor, joking that Sirius made even _him_ feel like a peasant. Moony had always seemed a little uncomfortable but mostly amused every time Sirius’s privileged upbringing became obvious. Wormtail… Come to think of it, the Rat had just watched him with unsmiling eyes and an unconvincing smile. Merlin, maybe Sirius really had been blind. Had he noticed Wormtail’s poorly concealed envy and resentment toward him and Prongs sooner, maybe Jamie would have been...

Swallowing, Sirius forced himself to focus on the present. There was no use thinking of what ifs. He would go mad if kept thinking of them.

The point was, while Alastor Durke’s respectful attitude was nothing new to him, it was still strange. Sirius was no longer the Black heir. Why was the solicitor still treating him as if he was?

Finally, after an hour of answering rather personal—and painful—questions, Sirius said bluntly, “You do know that I'm disowned, right?”

The old wizard blinked before frowning. “Whatever gave you that idea, Mr. Black?”

It was Sirius’s turn to blink at him owlishly. “What do you mean? I am disowned.”

Durke shook his head, still frowning. “You’re still Lord Black’s legal heir.”

Sirius stared at him. Grandfather hadn't disowned him? “But…but my mother blasted my name off the Black Family Tree.” 

The solicitor’s eyebrows crept up. “Were you not informed by your father that the Black Family Tree cannot be really changed? The ‘burned off’ names are nothing but an illusion to show the family’s displeasure with the particular family member. Disowning a family member—especially the direct heir—is more complicated than that. It's not impossible, but neither Lord Black nor your late father have ever taken the necessary steps to disown you.”

Sirius nodded numbly, his mind reeling. So that explained why the solicitor’s attitude toward him hadn't changed. It didn't, however, explain why his mother hadn't pressured his father into disowning him—everyone knew who wore the pants in the family.

It also didn't explain why Walburga was helping him.

_I never want to lay my eyes on you again._

Pushing the memories to the back of his mind, Sirius tried to focus on the meeting. 

The solicitor proved himself very useful. Apparently, the DMLE was unable to provide any conclusive evidence against him besides Pettigrew’s finger and the widely assumed belief that he'd been the Potters’ Secret Keeper. 

“I'm willing to testify under Veritaserum,” Sirius said.

Durke nodded. “I'll arrange the official interrogation for tomorrow morning. If everything proceeds as it should, you will be a free man next afternoon.”

“That soon?” Sirius said, looking at him with disbelief. He'd expected that proving his innocence—making people listen to him—would be much harder. “I won't even get a trial?”

Durke shook his head. “You will not need a Wizengamot trial if the Aurors’ interrogation conclusively proves your innocence, which I expect it will. Scions of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black—”

“Do not stand trial for no reason, because it would blemish our reputation,” Sirius finished with a bit of an eyeroll.

“Indeed,” Durke said. “In fact, we will sue the Ministry for the damage to your House’s reputation and your unlawful arrest and imprisonment.” He smiled, looking very much like a shark, despite his old age. “We can demand monetary compensation of at least four hundred thousand galleons.”

“Um,” Sirius said faintly. “I'm sure it won't be necessary…”

“On the contrary,” Walburga said haughtily, entering the room. “It is necessary. Your foolish cousin’s actions damaged the Blacks’ reputation as it is. We will stand to benefit from this situation.”

Sirius tensed, both at his mother's return and at her words. “What did Bella do? Besides the obvious?”

His mother scoffed, the look of pure disdain in her eyes. It was strange for Sirius to see that familiar expression caused by someone who wasn't him.

“Bellatrix and her husband tortured the Longbottoms into insanity,” Walburga said.

“Frank and Alice?” Sirius managed, his lips barely moving.

“Yes,” Walburga said. “I believe they are in the permanent Spell Damage ward of St. Mungo's now.”

“So unfortunate,” Durke said, shaking his head. “The Longbottoms are among our clients. The current heir is barely one years old.”

Sirius lifted his head. “Where's Harry?” he said hoarsely. As much as he felt terrible for Frank and Alice, he cared more about Harry. As Harry's godmother, Alice was supposed to take care of Harry in case something happened to James and Lily. With her and her husband incapacitated and Sirius imprisoned, who was taking care of Harry? Hagrid hadn't told Sirius where he was taking him.

“Harry?” Walburga said, raising an eyebrow.

“My godson,” Sirius said, glaring at her. “Harry Potter.”

“The Boy-Who-Lived is your godson, Mr. Black?” Durke said.

Sirius’s lips twisted. Was that what people were calling Harry? He supposed it could have been worse.

“Yes,” he said shortly, addressing the solicitor. He didn't like the calculating expression in Walburga's eyes. That woman was always scheming something.

“It's not known where he is,” Durke said, frowning thoughtfully. “It was announced that he was moved somewhere safe. I suppose I could make discreet inquiries…”

“There's no need to be discreet, Alastor,” Walburga said with a disturbing gleam in her eyes. “After all, Sirius Orion is the boy’s guardian now, and the child is distantly related to the Blacks through my Aunt Dorea.”

“Whatever you're planning, stop,” Sirius said, tensing.

“Why, do you not want to be the boy’s guardian?” Walburga said.

“It’s none of your business what _I_ will do,” Sirius said. “I'll be out of your life tomorrow!”

But instead of agreeing with him, Walburga just stared at him with an inscrutable expression. “The boy needs a good Wizarding home. Grimmauld Place will suit his needs. What can you offer him now? A filthy one-bedroom muggle flat?”

Sirius felt his face heat up. How did she know where he lived? Against his better judgement, he couldn't fight the wave of mortification at the mere thought of his mother seeing his shabby flat. 

“Grimmauld Place isn't a 'good Wizarding home,'” Sirius said with a harsh laugh. “Are you fucking insane?” 

“Language,” she snapped. “You will not speak to me in such a tone, young man.”

“I'll speak to you however I damn please,” Sirius said. “Do you think I'll let you anywhere near my godson? You wouldn't recognize maternal instincts if they bit you in the face!”

Walburga pressed her lips together. “I raised two sons.”

Sirius snorted. “And look how they turned out! One joined a psycho cult and died before his twentieth birthday, the other is…well, me, a total embarrassment to the family.”

Walburga gave him a pinched look, as if she was tasting something sour.  “Your upbringing is certainly not to blame for your appalling life choices and behavior. But if we discount them, you are…an adequate Black.”

Sirius opened his mouth and then closed it, not knowing what to say—not knowing what to think. Finally, he cleared his throat. “About that. I thought I was disowned. Why am I not disowned? I distinctly remember you gleefully informing me about it in a Howler. But apparently it's impossible to blast someone off the Black Family Tree, imagine that!”

Did she look uncomfortable?

“You may go, Alastor,” she told Durke.

The solicitor bowed to her, and then to Sirius, before leaving hurriedly. 

Silence descended upon the room.

“Your father's health started failing soon after you left,” she said stiffly at last. “Disowning you was the last thing on his mind, considering his health concerns. We informed Arcturus of your conduct and left it to his discretion. You can ask him yourself why he didn't disinherit you.”

“No thanks,” Sirius said. “I doubt I'll ever see Grandfather again.”

Walburga smiled. “Yes, you will. I'm sure he will wish to see you once he hears that you came to your senses and returned home.”

Sirius could only stare at her. Was that a joke? Did she seriously believe he would return to Grimmauld Place? Did she even _want_ him back? She had made it clear she never wanted to see him again.

“So now you want me?” Sirius said bitterly. “You don't have your perfect son anymore, so now you suddenly want the one you despise?”

She closed her eyes for a moment before sighing and looking him in the eye. “You will come home, and you will behave according to your station. You’re the Black heir. You will not besmirch the reputation of our family anymore.”

“You can't make me,” he growled, springing to his feet. He hated that a part of him cared that she didn't deny despising him and preferring Regulus to him. Screw her. Seriously, screw her.

“I can't,” she agreed with unnerving calm. “But think of your godson, Sirius. He is going to need a Wizarding home he can grow up in without worrying about his safety and his privacy being invaded.”

“Safety?” he said incredulously. “Our entire family is Dark, and he just offed your precious Dark Lord.”

“Do not be ridiculous,” she said coldly. “Being Dark doesn't equal willingness to serve a Dark Lord. The Blacks don't serve _anyone_. Bellatrix is the only Death Eater and she will likely receive a life sentence in Azkaban. She will not be a problem.”

“Regulus was a Death Eater too,” Sirius said, daring her to deny it.

She pursed her lips. “You know as well as I do that your brother was easily influenced by people he admired. His friends had talked him into it. He didn't consult any of us before joining.”

He snorted. “Are you going to claim you didn't approve?”

“Of course I didn't,” she said derisively.

Sirius laughed. “Do you expect me to believe you? You were very outspoken about your approval of the Dark Bastard!”

 “I supported his beliefs—they were correct for the most part—not him.” Walburga seemed to hesitate before saying quietly, “I was at Hogwarts at the same time as the Dark Lord. I know of his origins. He might have been a Slytherin descendant, but we're the _Blacks._ Our blood is the purest in Europe. We do not bow to a half-blood.”

Sirius frowned. Voldemort was a half-blood? 

“Why didn't you say anything? You could have—you could have stopped so many Purebloods from joining him! If they knew that he wasn't Pureblood—”

“Use your brain for once,” she said sharply. “Why do you think no one knows of his origins? He bribed, obliviated, and killed, until those who still knew the truth knew better than to share that information. I'm sure the only reason he never bothered to go after me was because my position in society was too high to make me disappear.” She sneered. “Besides, not all of his followers care as much about blood purity as they should. I warned Bellatrix, but the foolish girl was too obsessed with him to believe me.”

Sirius looked at her suspiciously. He'd always thought Walburga approved of Bellatrix—she always praised her in public—so his mother's scathing words were more than a little surprising. “What about Regulus? He would have listened to you. He did everything you said! He was a Mummy’s boy through and through.”

A barely noticeable grimace crossed her face. “I admit I didn't…take as much interest in his life as I should have. I didn't know he joined the Death Eaters until it was too late.”

Sirius scoffed. “I don't believe you! You always knew everything that was going on in my life at Hogwarts, even though I never told you anything. You fucking spied on me! Are you actually claiming you didn't do the same with Reg?”

Something flickered in her eyes. Was it discomfort? Guilt?

“He wasn't you,” she said tersely. “He was a good, obedient child. He didn't need constant supervision—or so I thought.” Her lips pursed.  “Either way, it's irrelevant now. Do not change the subject.”

“What subject? I'm not raising my godson in a viper’s pit!” Sirius said.

Her eyes narrowed. “For once, don't be foolish and think with your head,” she said. “Even when your name is cleared, there will be people who won't believe your innocence, and people who will target the Boy-Who-Lived. Do you want the child to get hurt?”

Sirius glowered at her.  “I can find another place with good wards. I'm sure Dumbledore will let us stay at Hogwarts for the time being.”

“Dumbledore?” she said mockingly. “The same Dumbledore who's done nothing to help you so far?” 

Sirius flushed. “I'm sure he's been busy. He has lots of duties!”

”Hmm.” She cocked her head, looking pensive. “Then don't you find it strange that Dumbledore has found time to testify on the behalf of a known Death Eater, but hasn't bothered to do anything for you?”

Sirius’s stomach dropped. “A Death Eater? Who?”

She smiled. “The unpleasant boy you and the Potter boy bullied at Hogwarts. I believe his name is Severus Snape.”

Sirius felt as though he'd been punched. He couldn't believe Dumbledore had vouched for _Snivellus_ of all people, but let him go to Azkaban without as much as asking him why he'd done it. Did Dumbledore have so little faith in him?

Sirius didn't know what emotion was written on his face, but Walburga’s expression changed.

She walked closer and stopped in front of him. 

She was shorter than him now, Sirius realized with some surprise. Other than looking smaller, she hadn't changed at all in the years he hadn't seen her, still perfectly dressed, perfectly poised and strikingly beautiful for her age. She still looked like Bellatrix’s older sister instead of her aunt.

He averted his gaze for a moment, uncomfortable, before his gaze was drawn back to hers. He glared at her, hating that despite his superior height, despite being a grown man now, a part of him still felt like a little boy in her presence. 

She lifted her hand and put it on his unshaven cheek.

He stiffened, his shoulders tensing up.

She stared at his face intently, her gray eyes roaming all over it. 

Sirius opened his mouth, but didn't say anything. Couldn't. He could barely stand having her hand on his face, but he couldn't make himself push her away. 

He didn't want to push her away. 

“You smell,” she said, breaking the thick tension and stepping back. 

He breathed out and laughed. “I've spent a week in Azkaban. Forgive me for not smelling like roses.”

She sneered, avoiding his gaze for some reason. “That senile man never deserved your loyalty. I'm glad you're starting to realize that. Tomorrow you will be cleared, and you _will_ return to Grimmauld Place.”

He eyed her. “What happened to never wanting to see me again? To regretting giving birth to me?”

“As you said yourself, I still had another son back then. Now I don't.”

His chest tight, Sirius gave her a hateful look. “So what, I'm supposed to be a poor substitute for your perfect son? No thanks.”

A grimace crossed her face before she fixed him with a withering look. “You will be what _I_ want you to be. If it weren't for me, you would be still rotting in Azkaban. You would have spent years in Azkaban before going insane or dying there, abandoned by your so-called friends. You  _owe_  me, Sirius Orion Black.”

Sirius clenched his jaw, hating that she was right. 

“Fine,” he bit out. “But I'm not your precious Regulus and I'll never be him. I'm not changing.”

A strange expression flickered in her eyes. “I don’t want you to be Regulus,” she said before striding out.

Sirius sagged against the wall, tension leaving his body in a rush.

Merlin, he hated that woman. 

And yet he couldn't deny that arguing with her felt... It felt _good_ , pushing her and feeling her push right back—like slipping into an old, well-worn shirt he’d lost a long time ago. Something he'd _missed._

Sirius laughed hoarsely, running a hand through his shaggy hair. 

Bloody hell, he might be as messed up in the head as the rest of his family. 


	4. Chapter 4

 

Grimmauld Place was even more depressing than Sirius remembered.

He shivered as the house's magic enveloped him, his body both hating and welcoming the feeling. His relationship with this house had always been complicated. The house’s magic felt dark and heavy, creepy and exhilarating--not that Sirius had ever admitted that a part of him liked the feel of dark family magic. It was something he'd never told anyone, not even Prongs. It _wasn't_ Sirius’s fault that he liked it. He couldn't help it. Sirius blamed his Black blood and the generations of his ancestors who'd all been dark wizards. He was naturally predisposed toward dark magic, no matter how much he might hate it.

“Welcome home,” Walburga said.

Sirius snorted.

She shot him a flat look. “Go to your room, take a bath, and change into more appropriate clothes. You smell of filth.”

Sirius bristled before realizing that she likely meant it literally rather than saying that he smelled of mudbloods and blood traitors the Ministry was full of.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said sarcastically and turned to go.

But her voice stopped him. “Have you forgotten your manners completely? That's not how you’re supposed to bid farewell to the Lady of the House.” And she stretched out her hand.

Sirius blinked, astonished. Did she seriously want that from him? Despite him being filthy?

She raised her eyebrow, expectant and haughty.

Sirius looked down at her hand. It was white and smooth, but somehow smaller than he remembered.

He wanted to tell her to sod off. He wanted to tell her that he wasn't going to play the role of a good little Pureblood son.

But somehow, he found himself taking that white hand and bringing it to his mouth. Her face remained blank, her gray eyes fixed on him.

“You may go, Sirius,” she said.

Sirius turned and headed upstairs, trying to ignore the strange feeling in his chest. The family portraits started murmuring when they saw him, but he ignored them for the most part.

“Halt, boy.”

Sirius stopped reluctantly at the voice of Septimus Black I. It was one of the oldest portraits in the house, but the man peering at him from the portrait looked remarkably like Sirius himself. His mother claimed that Black traits always bred true, and Sirius had to agree. It was kind of creepy that the men in the direct Black line looked so like each other, himself included. If Sirius were honest with himself, that was partly why he'd rebelled, trying to be different and not just one of the many copy-pasted Black lords peering haughtily from the family portraits.

“So I see you have come to your senses at last,” Septimus said.

Sirius made a face. Unlike the other ancient portraits, Septimus remained unusually aware and involved with the lives of his modern descendants. “Good to see you, too, old boy.”

Septimus gave him an unimpressed look. “It's about time you did. The house has been falling apart.”

Sirius almost snorted before realizing what his ancestor likely meant. He frowned and gave a longer look around. He'd thought it had been his imagination that the hallways seemed narrower and darker, but maybe it hadn't been. 

The thing with old wizarding houses like Grimmauld Place was…they had accumulated so much magic over thousands years that they had a mind of their own. Just like Hogwarts with its moving stairs and corridors, old ancestral houses like Grimmauld Place could behave very strangely. It was one of the few lessons that Orion Black had taught him that Sirius had actually found fascinating when he was a child: the house changed to suit the family's needs. If there were many Blacks living under its roof, the house’s hallways grew wider and new rooms could appear. If there was no lady of the house, the householding charms could behave erratically, allowing pests like doxies and boggarts to spread. 

And if there was no lord of the house, the house’s defensive wards weakened significantly. Moreover, the longer a wizarding house didn't have a master, the higher was the chance that the accumulated family magic would twist into something bad. There were many tales of wizarding houses that had become half-sentient after years of neglect, houses that caused nightmares, depression, and suicidal tendencies, houses that had become feral, no longer able to bond to a new master.

Sirius’s stomach dropped. His father—and Regulus—had been dead for two years. Walburga was the only person who'd lived in this mausoleum since their deaths.

Frowning, Sirius concentrated and tentatively reached to the wards. He half-expected to be rejected, but he wasn't. If anything, the ancient wards _surged_ toward him, snapping into the back of his mind. Sirius gasped, not having expected it at all. He felt...he felt the entire house in a way he'd never had before. He now had a full access to the wards, and could see the problem. The house was hurting. Hurting and creaking from neglect and disrepair, its wards weakened in several places, the corridors narrower, the magical lights dimmer.

“What the hell,” Sirius said, looking around wildly before turning back to Septimus. “What happened to this place? It's been just a few years since Father died!”

Septimus looked grim. “Your father had been ill for years before his death. He was in no condition to look properly after the house.” He glared at Sirius. “If you were a proper heir, you would have known that already. You would have been here to do your duty to the house of your forebears!”

Sirius shook his head, still trying to adjust to having so much access to the ancient wards. As the heir, he'd been taught how to manage the wards since he'd been eight years old, and the lessons were coming back to him, but it was still overwhelming. He didn't want to be bonded to this wretched house, dammit. He'd been planning to pay his debt to Walburga by staying here for a few months and then get the hell out of this place, but now…

Sirius glared at Septimus. “How do I remove it?”

“Remove what?”

“The bond,” Sirius gritted out. “I don't want to be the Lord of the House.”

Septimus smirked. “I'm afraid you can't remove it. Unless you father a male child and pass it over to him.”

”You bastard—”

But Septimus was already gone from his portrait.

Scowling darkly, Sirius matched toward his old room. He opened the door and froze, staring wide-eyed at the muggle posters of scantily clad girls.

He swept his gaze around the room slowly, taking in the Gryffindor colors.

Nothing had changed.

His old room looked exactly the same. 

Sirius had expected that his mother would have destroyed every reminder of her blood traitor son from the house. He had expected that she would give his room to Regulus. It was bigger than Regulus’s.

So why the hell did his room look as though he'd just left it? It had been five years. Sure, he'd attached the posters to the walls with permanent sticking charms, but they weren't impossible to remove. Any curse breaker could have removed them.

Frowning in confusion, Sirius strode to the adjoined bathroom and found it exactly the same.

There was a loud crack.

“Kreacher prepared a bath for the Master,” said a familiar nasty voice.

Sirius whirled around and stared at the old elf. “Oh. You're still alive.”

Kreacher glared at him. “Kreacher is alive, Master Sirius sir.”

Sirius snorted, undressing briskly. “Don't strain yourself trying to be polite to me.”

“Kreacher has orders from his Mistress,” the house-elf grumbled, looking at him with open dislike. “Though Kreacher doesn't understand why the Mistress wants the Traitor back.”

“You and me both,” Sirius mumbled, sinking into wonderfully warm water and relaxing against the bath tub.

“The Mistress shouldn't forgive the Traitor for breaking the Mistress’s heart,” Kreacher grumbled.

Sirius gave a snort, closing his eyes. “She must have a heart first in order to break it.”

“The Master is mean to Kreacher's poor Mistress—”

“You're dismissed, Kreacher,” Sirius said.

“The Mistress says the Master is to dress in the clothes she chose,” Kreacher said before leaving with a loud crack.

Sirius made a face but didn't feel like kicking up a fuss over clothes, no matter how stuffy and formal they no doubt would be. After a week in Azkaban he found it hard to get worked up over such meaningless things. Merlin, part of him still couldn't believe he was free. It felt bloody surreal. If a few weeks ago someone had told him he would be back in Grimmauld Place, having a bath prepared by Kreacher, kissing his mother's hand, he would have laughed and called that person insane. It seemed like it had been in another life. 

A few weeks ago Prongs and Lily had still been alive.

Gritting his teeth, Sirius shook the thought off. He would get nothing done if he kept dwelling on that. He'd relived the memory of his friends’ deaths over and over in Azkaban, so often that he'd become a little numb. There had been time to grieve. He couldn't wallow in guilt and grief anymore. Now that he was free, he needed to get Harry from wherever Hagrid had taken him. Alastor Durke had promised to make inquiries, and Sirius could barely wait. He had wanted to start looking for Harry right after being released, but Walburga had persuaded him to wait.

“A few days will change nothing,” she had said. “We need to clear your name first. No one knows yet that you have been released.”

As much as it pained Sirius to agree with her, he knew she was right. No one would take him seriously while they thought him a murderer and Death Eater—and while Sirius still looked like an unkempt, half-starved prisoner. Sometimes appearances _did_ matter, especially when it came to becoming a guardian of an orphaned child. He needed to be smart about it if he wanted to get Harry's custody.

Sirius was still thinking about it as he got out of the bath and padded toward the set of robes laid out on the bed. As expected, they were fancy and traditional, but thankfully not completely old-fashioned, but rather the kind young Pureblood men like Lucius Malfoy favored. They were black with green accents. 

Sighing, Sirius got dressed. Both the robes and the dark trousers fit well. They had been clearly ordered to his measurements rather than being his father's.  Sirius rolled his eyes. It had barely been two days, but of course what Walburga Black wanted, she got.

He felt like a peacock in these fancy robes, but he didn't have the energy to fight over clothes, of all things, after being interrogated by grim-faced Aurors for what felt like hours. He was free; that was all that mattered.

Sirius left his room and strode toward the dining room. Wherever he walked, the hallways seemed already a bit wider and brighter than before. The wards also felt better. Sirius wasn't surprised: the bond between the house and its master was symbiotic. The house fed on his magic and in turn shared with him the accumulated family magic. Sirius didn't find the sensation as distasteful as he had expected. He felt stronger, the dark magic of his ancestors tingling his senses, which was both disquieting and somehow comforting at the same time.

His mother was already seated at the table when he entered the dining room. Her gray eyes roamed all over him, gleaming with faint satisfaction and approval.

Sirius chose to ignore it and headed to the seat at the opposite end of the table.

“Am I to remind you of manners every time, Sirius Orion?” she said haughtily, stretching her hand out.

Sirius glared at her, annoyed. Did she seriously expect him to kiss her hand every time they saw each other and parted? Sirius could never stand all that Pureblood nonsense she was now insisting on.

He marched toward her, determined to annoy her so much that she would stop insisting on all that Pureblood shit. “Hi, Mum,” he said, and, leaning down, kissed her on the cheek.

She went rigid.

Sirius kind of froze, too. She smelled just like he remembered, of some subtle, expensive perfume that reminded him of his childhood. Her cheek was smooth and soft against his lips.

Clearing his throat, Sirius pulled back and straightened.

To his amazement, he found her _blushing_. Walburga Black was clearly flustered—by a kiss on the cheek, of all things. It was hilarious. 

Sirius expected a scathing dressing-down, but she said nothing.

So he turned and headed to the seat opposite her, not knowing what to think. 

As soon as he took the seat, Walburga said, “Kreacher.”

Immediately, the table was filled with food. 

Feeling ravenous after more than a week of prison food, Sirius tucked in. Truth be told, the delicious meals prepared by Kreacher were one of the few things he'd missed about Grimmauld Place after starting to live on his own. He'd been spoiled by meals prepared by house-elves all his life, and after graduating Hogwarts, he had found it hard to adjust. He wasn't a very good cook. To put it lightly.

Only after a while did he realize that Walburga wasn't eating. She was just sitting there, watching him with a strange gleam in her eyes.

Sirius raised his eyebrows. “What?”

She said, “Nothing.” She cleared her throat, averting her gaze. “I see the house has accepted you as the Lord.”

Sirius pulled a face. “Why couldn't you get one of our male relatives move in?  Maybe your father?” Pollux Black had never made it a secret that he coveted the ancestral London home of Blacks.

Walburga scoffed. “The house wouldn't have accepted him as its master unless you were dead or absent for at least a decade. You know this house is entailed to your father's side of the family.”

“It would have accepted Grandfather Arcturus,” Sirius said, gesturing to Kreacher absent-mindedly to pour him a glass of fine Veela wine. 

Walburga took a delicate sip from her tea cup. “I haven't seen Lord Black since your father's funeral. You know how he is. He abhors the city and has no desire to live in this house. He's holed himself up in the Black Manor and rarely allows visitors. In any case, I would have never asked such a favor from that old grouch.” Her lips thinned. “He never lets me forget that I horribly mismanaged you and left him without a direct heir.”

Sirius barked out a laugh. “Are you actually admitting that you mismanaged me?”

 “I admit nothing.” Walburga took another sip of her tea. “But I’m not without regrets. I should have never been so indulgent with you.”

Sirius stared at her incredulously. Was that a joke? “Indulgent? All you ever did was criticize me for every little thing and praise your precious Regulus!”

Her eyebrows furrowed. “That's not how I remember it.”

“That's not how I remember it, either,” said a familiar dry voice.

For a moment, Sirius was sure he must be hallucinating. Then he followed Walburga's gaze to the portrait that hung on the far wall.

Orion Black looked at him steadily, his lips curled into a sneer. “Your mother has always been extremely… temperamental about you, but make no mistake, you have always been her weak point.”

Spots of color appeared on Walburga's cheekbones. “I liked it better when you didn't speak,” she said testily, glaring at the portrait of her dead husband.

Sirius looked from her to his father. It was strange to see his father as a portrait, but it wasn't any stranger than talking to Septimus Black. Sirius had never been close to his father. He didn't know the man all that well. Orion Black had never been involved in raising him besides the customary Black heir lessons he'd forced on Sirius in his study. All his father had ever done was watch passively as Sirius and Walburga fought and yelled at each other.

“I know you preferred to hole up in your study and pretend to be deaf,” Sirius said with a sardonic smile, “but even you couldn’t have possibly missed that she always praised Reg and despised everything about me!”

Orion Black looked at him flatly. “Indeed. That's why she gave you a bigger room, an Abraxan that cost an obscene amount of galleons for your tenth birthday, and refused to celebrate Yule after you left home. She clearly preferred Regulus.” 

Sirius opened his mouth and then closed it.

He looked at Walburga, but her attention seemed to be focused entirely on the piece of venison she was currently cutting into small, precise parts. 

She bit off, “Orion, if you don't cease speaking nonsense, I will tell Kreacher to move your portrait to the attic.”

Orion didn't seem all that concerned by the threat. He didn't look away from Sirius, gazing at him with something like dislike. “Frankly, I have never understood why she was so obsessed with you. Regulus might have been weak, but at least he was respectful and loyal to the family. You were nothing but an ungrateful, spoiled boy, too used to getting your way. Your mother was indeed too indulgent with you.”

Sirius snorted a laugh. “Either you went senile with age, or there’s something wrong with your portrait, old boy. She's never been indulgent with me in my life! Expensive presents don't count. They don't replace love and affection—but you probably don't even know what those words mean.”

Orion sneered. “I see you are still as blind and foolish as you have always been. If you were smarter, you would have realized that you could make your mother _poison_ me if you asked her nicely.”

“Enough,” Walburga snapped. “Kreacher, take the portrait of your former Master to the attic.”

The old elf flapped his ears, looking at her despairingly. “Kreacher can't do it, Mistress! The portraits of Lords and Ladies of the house are not to be moved, Mistress! The house won't let Kreacher do it!”

Orion smirked, looking so damn haughty, condescending, and smug that Sirius wanted to punch him in his painted face.

Narrowing his eyes, Sirius focused, and loosened the protective wards around his father's portrait. 

“Remove the portrait to the attic, Kreacher,” Sirius said and watched his father's smirk disappear when Kreacher took it off the wall.

Sirius gave his father an innocent smile. “What is the matter? I did pay attention to your boring lectures, Father. Sometimes.”

Orion looked incensed as Kreacher took him and disapparated with a crack. Sirius almost laughed—the Lord of the House thing certainly had its perks—and turned back to Walburga.

He found her staring at him, her gaze dark and intense.

Sirius smile faded. “What?” he said, immediately defensive.

Walburga stood, walked over, and, leaning down, kissed him on the forehead. 

Stiffening, Sirius stared at her, wide-eyed. 

“A good mother doesn't have a favorite child,” Walburga said, pulling back, her expression rueful and self-deprecating as she ran a possessive hand through his hair. “But I suppose I have never been a good mother.”

She left the room, leaving Sirius sitting there, dumbfounded. 

Did she…did she really mean what he thought she meant?


	5. Chapter 5

Walburga entered the dining room at eleven in the morning, after going to bed late. Writing so many letters had been rather time-consuming—and it was something she normally loathed—but this time she didn't mind. In fact, she felt refreshed and energized, younger than she'd had in years. There were things to arrange, people to manipulate, and a wayward son to reform.

To her surprise, the son in question was seated at the table, breaking his fast despite the rather late hour. Walburga raised her eyebrows. Her firstborn had always been an obnoxiously early riser. But then again, he'd spent a week in Azkaban and it was unlikely he’d gotten much sleep there. Now the dark circles under his eyes were gone. He looked well-rested.

It pleased her.

Sirius lifted his gaze from the Daily Prophet in his hands and looked at her somewhat warily. “Good morning.” His tone was carefully neutral.

She could feel that if she made a wrong move or said a wrong word, he would immediately close up and become hostile again.

So she allowed herself to show the genuine pleasure she felt at the sight of him seated at the head of the table, where he _belonged_ , looking aristocratic and handsome in another set of robes she'd ordered for him. “Good morning, Sirius.”

The corner of his mouth twitched a little before he returned his gaze to the newspaper. “Durke has done a fine job with the Prophet. They're making me look like a tragic, unlawfully imprisoned hero, the heir to the Wizarding royal family and all that shit.”

Walburga took the seat across him. She decided not to tell him that she had personally owled the Prophet's editor last night. Certain things couldn't be delegated. “None of it is false," she said. "The Blacks are the equivalent of British Wizarding Royalty.”

Sirius rolled his eyes, but it seemed long-suffering and good-natured rather than insolent, so she chose to ignore it. 

There was a loud crack. 

Kreacher appeared in front of her son and handed him a letter. “Alastor Durker sir has a message for the Master.”

Sirius opened it.

Walburga watched a frown appear on his handsome face, the furrow between his dark brows deepening. 

“Is something the matter?” she said, sipping her tea.

“He found out where Harry is.” Sirius glared at the letter, as if it personally offended him. “Dumbledore gave Harry to Lily’s sister.”

Walburga sneered. “A muggle filth?”

To her surprise, her son didn't jump to the muggle’s defense. Instead, he scowled. “That bitch hated Lily and everything magical. I remember how crushed Lily was when Petunia refused to attend her wedding, saying that she wouldn't go to freaks’ wedding.”

Walburga honestly couldn't remember the last time she felt so speechless. A muggle filth, a _worm_ , considered wizards freaks? 

“I can't bloody believe Dumbledore gave Harry to Petunia,” Sirius bit out, his eyes glinting darkly. “He knows how much that woman hates magic.”

Walburga almost smiled in triumph. She could see that her son's faith in Dumbledore had been shaken significantly in the last few days, but this was truly the final blow. This was Sirius’s _godson_ , James Potter’s brat. Walburga needed to tread carefully. Although the idea of raising a mudblood’s son was distasteful, Harry Potter was the key to truly getting her son back. The current truce between them was too tentative to be sustainable. She needed something stronger to tie him to the family. James Potter’s brat would help her achieve that.

Not to mention that there were other upsides to getting the custody of the Boy-Who-Lived.  It would certainly improve their family’s reputation after the damage it had suffered because of Bellatrix's foolish actions. 

“Had James Potter named you the guardian of his son officially?” she said.

Sirius nodded, still scowling at the letter. “He put it in his will. Me and Alice Longbottom. But Durke says the Potters’ will was sealed by Dumbledore.”

“Well, that's nothing that can't be fixed,” Walburga said, standing up. “We will have to make a visit to the Ministry. Kreacher, bring our cloaks.”

Kreacher disappeared and reappeared with their cloaks. She slipped into her deep emerald cloak over her black velvet dress. Sirius’s heavy black cloak complemented her attire well. She half-expected that he would object to the silver crest of the House of Black on his cloak, but he didn't comment on it as he put it on.

Their eyes met.

He offered her an arm. “Shall we?”

Walburga struggled to keep her expression blank. This was the first time in her memory that she felt like she and her firstborn were on the same side. She felt disgustingly giddy as she put her hand on his offered arm and allowed him to lead her to the Floo room. Merlin, this was getting quite pathetic—he had too much power over her—but she had never been able to be rational where he was concerned.

Walburga could only console herself that her son was too much of a Gryffindor to use that against her. As much as his words irritated her, Orion had been entirely correct: if her firstborn had ever asked her nicely, there was _nothing_  she wouldn't do for him. 

The Blacks always felt deeply, be it hatred or love. 

In a way, she could almost relate to Bellatrix: her obsessive loyalty to the half-blood Dark Lord wasn't all that different from her own incurable, pathetic weakness for her blood traitor of a son. Almost. At least _her son's_ bloodline was impeccable, unlike Tom Riddle’s.

 

***

 

Sirius fought the urge to laugh hysterically as he strode through the Ministry with his mother on his arm. There was a surreal quality to the whole thing. A few days ago, he had been in Azkaban, half-starved, filthy, and forgotten by everyone. Now he was walking in the Ministry as a free man, the picture of a Pureblood aristocrat, haughty and impeccably dressed.

People stared and whispered, following them with their eyes. Some people looked distrustful. Some looked fearful. Some looked surprised. But every single one of them looked at them with some degree of respect that Sirius couldn't deny felt good—felt  _right_. Bloody hell, he was disgusted with himself. He shouldn't feel this way. A good person would never feel this way. 

Sirius liked to think he was a good person, at least he tried to be, but at moments like this, he couldn't help but think that he would never overcome his upbringing. He _had_ been born to the equivalent of British Wizarding Royalty and certain things were hard to shake off. 

Sirius still remembered the first time the Marauders had received a detention from McGonagall and she had told them that they were to clean toilets by hand. Sirius had scoffed and refused to do it, no matter how many points she'd threatened to take. “Blacks don't clean toilets,” he'd told her with distaste.  

Sirius still remembered the pinched expression on McGonagall’s face. “With that attitude, you should have been sorted into Slytherin, Mr. Black,” she'd said. “But here in Gryffindor we don't care about your surname. All our students are equal. If Mr. Pettigrew can clean toilets, you certainly can, too.”  Sirius had flushed and reluctantly picked up a piece of cloth. He'd noticed the weird way his new friends were looking at him, and it had been the first time he truly realized how different his upbringing was from theirs. After that day, Sirius had tried to tone it down, not wanting to stand out, and made sure to loudly express his distaste for his snobbish family. He had been aware it was very Slytherin of him, but fuck it, he didn't want to be the weird boy no one liked. So he had pretended. Pretended to be ordinary. Pretended he didn't feel any resentment when he saw Regulus acting like himself and his Slytherin friends treating him as though it was normal instead of looking at him as though he'd grown a second head. He pretended it didn't bother him at all. Sirius had pretended for so long the lie had started feeling like the truth.

But was it?

Sirius didn't know. He'd thought he'd suppressed his Black roots so thoroughly they were gone, but now, a decade later, he wasn't all that sure anymore. Truth be told, he didn't feel uncomfortable in these fancy traditional robes. He felt overdressed, but he didn't feel like an impostor in them. He didn't mind them all that much, to be totally honest—they felt like armor. Sirius also couldn't deny that a part of him  _liked_ not having to pretend to be humble and ordinary. He had always been terrible at being humble and ordinary.

Walburga didn't even seem to notice the stares, her head held high, her face beautiful and devoid of emotion. Her hand on his arm was light, but there was something distinctly possessive about her touch. Sirius didn't mind all that much, even though he still wasn't sure where they stood with each other. Yesterday's conversation—the fact that she pretty much admitted that he had always been her favorite son—was seriously messing with his head. It shouldn't have changed anything, but it _did_. And it made him sick—him being her favorite didn't change the fact that she was a horrible, bigoted person—but apparently he really was that self-centered that it did change the way he felt about her. Although he didn't suddenly start thinking she was a good person, he was no longer as inclined to disagree with her on every little thing.

”Level Two. Department of Magical Law Enforcement.”

They got out of the lift and headed toward the small subdepartment at the back, Magical Inheritance and Family Affairs. 

Along the way, Sirius saw a familiar face. Alastor Moody was watching them, his magical eye roaming all over them while the normal eye was narrowed suspiciously.

“Black,” he said tersely. “I heard your mother made a stink and freed you, but didn't believe it until now.” He fixed his magical eye on Walburga and sneered.

Sirius’s shoulders tensed. “Have you also heard that I’m innocent?” he said coldly. His respect for his old mentor had dropped significantly after his arrest and stay in Azkaban, and something about the way Moody was looking at his mother rubbed him wrong.

Walburga glanced at the Auror with a look of icy disdain. “Who is this…person, Sirius?”

Sirius held back a snort of amusement. She knew perfectly well who Moody was, but of course she couldn't resist the opportunity to humiliate the Auror. Sirius wasn't sure what it said about him that he kind of wanted to see Moody on the receiving end of her razor-sharp tongue.

“A man I used to trust,” he replied flatly, and watched with some satisfaction a guilty, uncomfortable expression appear on Moody’s face.

Moody started opening his mouth, but Sirius turned away and steered Walburga toward the subdepartment they needed. It was empty except for the bored-looking young witch reading this morning’s Prophet. 

“Yes?” the witch said without looking up.

“My friend appointed me as the guardian of his son, but we can't access his will. My name is Sirius Black.”

The witch's gaze snapped up, her eyes wide. She looked from him to Walburga, then back to Sirius.

Was she blushing?

”Oh. I’ve just read about the terrible injustice toward you, Mr. Black! I'm so glad the justice prevailed and that misunderstanding was cleared up—”

Walburga gave her a withering look. “Cease fluttering your eyelashes at my son and do your job. We have better things to do with our time.”

The girl flushed and cleared her throat. “Of course. You said your friend’s son…” She cut herself off, her mouth falling open. “Do you mean the Boy-Who-Lived?”

Sirius looked at her coolly. He was starting to really dislike that moniker. Harry was a mere baby; he could barely walk and talk. He wasn't some kind of _icon_. “I mean Harry James Potter. His father appointed me as his guardian in his will.”

She pursed her lips thoughtfully, shaking her head. “I'm sorry, James Potter’s will was sealed by the Chief Warlock on the 1st of the month.”

Sirius felt a twinge of unease. If Dumbledore sealed James’s will the day after James’s death, he had known its contents by that time. He had known that Alice and Sirius were supposed to be Harry's guardians. Alice Longbottom had been healthy at the time and Sirius had still been free. Either of them would have taken care of Harry—if Dumbledore hadn't been so quick to seal the will. Why? Why was it necessary for Harry to be raised by Lily's hateful muggle sister? Why hadn't Dumbledore consulted them before leaving Harry with Petunia? Sirius was sure Alice would have never allowed Dumbledore to give Harry to Lily's sister—she knew what a horrible person Petunia was—and Sirius might have been looking for Wormtail, but he was just a Patronus away, too. Dumbledore could have easily contacted him and asked his side of the story. 

But he hadn't.

_Why_?

Sirius clenched his jaw, hating that a part of him now wondered if his arrest was convenient for the old man.

No. Dumbledore wasn't evil, dammit.

_But he views all of us as chest pieces in a larger game_ , a voice whispered at the back of his mind. Wouldn't Dumbledore sacrifice the freedom of one man, a son of an old Dark family, if he thought it was for the Greater Good?

No. 

Of course he wouldn't. Right?

“On what basis?” Walburga said, tearing him away from his thoughts.

The girl frowned. “For safety reasons, I believe.”

“You believe?” Walburga said cuttingly. 

The girl flushed. “That was what he said. I'm just doing my job, ma’am.”

Sirius’s brows furrowed. “What he said? The Chief Warlock can't seal anyone’s will without a written decree signed by at least two thirds of the Wizengamot.” At least he was pretty sure it worked that way, if he remembered his father's lessons correctly.

The young witch opened her mouth and closed it. “Well, yes,” she said primly, lifting her chin. “It’s the procedure normally, but during the war the Chief Warlock has the authority to seal someone's will for safety reasons if it's an emergency.”

Sirius looked at her flatly. “The war ended the day James died. The Chief Warlock couldn't have the authority to seal James’s will on that basis. You will remove the seal or I'll sue your department for incompetence.”

She paled. “I…Look, I'll have to owl the Chief Warlock. I can't do anything without consulting him first.”

“I don't see why you have to consult him, as the Chief Warlock had no authority to seal the will in the first place,” Walburga said sharply. “You will unseal James’s Potter’s will and transfer it to the Potters’ solicitor, where it should have been all along. I believe it’s Thomas Langley of ‘Ridding and Langley.’”

The young witch pursed her lips but stood and disappeared into the adjoining room. She returned a few moments later with a white envelope bearing the Potter crest. She made two magical copies of the document before returning the original to the archives. 

“I will owl a copy of the will to the Potters’ solicitor, and one to Gringotts, as per procedure,” she said, her gaze downcast.

Walburga gave her a derisive look, turning to leave.

“Thank you,” Sirius said, taking pity on the girl.

The witch looked up at him and blushed again a little. “Um, you’re welcome, Mr. Black. You can contact me if you need anything—”

Walburga made a scoffing sound, her grip on his arm tightening, and Sirius led her from the room before she could completely humiliate the poor girl.

“What a mannerless, shameless trollop,” she said scathingly once they were outside. “Young women should never be so upfront, especially since her advances were clearly unwelcome.”

Sirius said nothing, but he found himself smiling a little, vaguely amused. He should have probably found Walburga's possessiveness creepy and irritating, but he didn't. It felt good to know that his mother cared enough to feel possessive of him. It might be messed up, but that was how the Blacks showed that they gave a damn about something or someone. He was no different. He'd always felt possessive of Jamie and it had hardly been a secret among the Marauders, to the point that Remus and Peter had known better than to ever take the seat next to Prongs. Lily used to joke that Sirius was more possessive of James than she was, which made Prongs roll his eyes with a long-suffering, fond grin, raking his hand through Sirius’s hair. “Ignore him, Lily Flower. He's like an overgrown toddler: a bit emotionally stunted, but ridiculously adorable and possessive of his favorite things. Naturally, I'm one of those things.” 

Sirius’s throat became tight at the memory, grief hitting him anew. Merlin, he regretted never telling Jamie how much he had meant to him, that he was more of a brother to him than Regulus ever was. Sirius’s love for his little brother had always been tainted by his resentment and jealousy over their mother’s favor; his love for Prongs was bloody  _pure_ by comparison. Prongs had always been his anchor, the light he'd clung to, to keep himself from succumbing to the vile darkness inside him. Jamie had believed that he was a good person, so Sirius had tried his damnedest to be one.

But James was dead now, and the only other person Sirius had ever felt as deeply about was the opposite of everything Prongs had been. 

Sirius flicked his eyes to the person in question, his lips thinning. Walburga Black wasn't Prongs. Half of the time Sirius was positive he hated her, hated everything about her. If James had brought out the best in him, Walburga Black brought out the absolute worst—his pride and arrogance, his explosive Black temper, and his vindictiveness—and he hated her for that. But what he felt for her—and his family—wasn't as simple as hatred. 

And he was starting to think it had been a mistake to pretend that it ever was.

Sirius found himself thinking of the conversation he'd had with Dumbledore after the whole fiasco with Snape and Moony in his fifth year.

_“Give me one reason why I shouldn't expel you, Mr. Black.”_

_Dumbledore's eyes were grim as he studied Sirius solemnly. There was no grandfatherly twinkle in them anymore. In fact, there was nothing grandfatherly about Dumbledore at that moment. The headmaster looked every bit the powerful wizard he was._

_And Sirius’s sense of self-preservation kicked in. “If you expel me, everyone will find out why—that Remus is a werewolf and that he attacked Snape. You wouldn't do that to him. He would be arrested. He would be the one getting punished, not me. In the law’s eyes, I did nothing wrong. He’s a werewolf. I'm a Pureblood.”_

_He knew it was the wrong answer the moment he'd said it._

_Dumbledore's gaze became darker, grimmer. “I thought you didn't agree with your family's stance on non-Purebloods, Mr. Black.”_

_“I don't,” Sirius said quickly, his face heating up. “I'm just saying how other people would see it. It's not how_ I _see it. If I did, I wouldn't be friends with Remus and Peter. I hate my family! I'm not a bigot like them.”_

_But the damage had already been done. He could see that Dumbledore was deeply disturbed._

_“I commend your determination to be different from your family, my boy,” the headmaster said at last. “But trust the word of an old man: you can run away from many things, but you can never run away from yourself.”_

At the time Sirius had just scoffed on the inside, writing it off as Dumbledore being Dumbledore.

But now he understood what Dumbledore had meant. 

He would never be able to escape from what he was: a Black, born and raised. He _was_ the product of his upbringing, regardless of his denial.

And with James gone, Sirius had trouble remembering _why_ it was a bad thing. 

Bloody hell. If he had any common sense left, he'd run away from his mother, as far as he could, to the other half of the planet if needed.

“Let's go home,” Walburga said, sneering a little and leaning slightly into him, probably to stop the “filth” from touching her.

Sirius looked at her beautiful, proud face and wished he could feel even a flicker of disgust. Instead, he felt _protective_ , which was beyond ridiculous considering that his mother could curse everyone in the vicinity if she chose to.

Merlin, he was screwed.

Sirius thought of Dumbledore's words again.

_You can run away from many things, but you can never run away from yourself._

With a sinking feeling, he suddenly wondered if that was why Dumbledore had been so quick to believe that Sirius could go dark and betray the Potters. 

But it still didn't excuse the old man. It didn't excuse the suspicious choices he’d made concerning Harry. It didn't excuse the fact that Albus Dumbledore had accepted Sirius into the Order, had Sirius fight for the Order and risk his life countless times, but couldn't do as much as give him the benefit of the doubt—couldn't spare a few minutes of his time to ask Sirius _why_. The fact that even his estranged mother—whom he hadn't seen for five years—gave more damn about Sirius's arrest than the man he'd looked up to was pretty damning in itself. Apparently Dumbledore could spare his time to vouch for Snivellus, who was a known Death Eater, and he could spare his time to seal James’s will, but Sirius wasn't worth it.

It made Sirius feel used. Used and furious. 

Dumbledore was right about one thing: in the end he was still a Black. 

Blacks didn't forgive easily. Dumbledore had better have a bloody good explanation for his actions.

_And if he even_ tries _to stop me from taking Harry..._

A grim smile flickered across Sirius’s face, his eyes hardening and his posture straightening.

_If he does, he will find out how much of a Black I still am._


	6. Chapter 6

There was a shabby man in the drawing room.

It took Walburga a few moments to recognize him. It was Remus Lupin, one of Sirius’s so-called Marauders. Lupin and her son seemed to be having a very uncomfortable conversation, judging by the tense set of Sirius’s shoulders and the dark glint in his eyes.

Walburga’s first urge was to throw the half-blood out. But she curbed it. She must be smarter about it. It would push Sirius away, and she found herself very unwilling to lose her son now that she had him back.

“I didn't know we had a guest,” she said, her gaze traveling over Lupin’s clothes and worn shoes.

Lupin had the grace to look embarrassed. “Mrs. Black,” he said awkwardly, his gaze flicking down to the neckline of her gown before he quickly averted his eyes, his face reddening.

Walburga found herself somewhat amused. Young men would be young men, she supposed.

However, Sirius didn't seem amused in the least. He grabbed her shawl off the chair, walked over, and wrapped it around her shoulders. “He's not a guest,” Sirius said in a clipped voice. “And he's leaving.”

“Sirius—”

“He's leaving,” Sirius bit out without looking at Lupin. His back was to Lupin, so the latter couldn't see the pain in his gray eyes.

But Walburga could, and she suddenly wanted to make Lupin _suffer_. Her hand twitched for her wand, but then she thought better of it. There were ways to make a man suffer without inflicting physical pain.

So she said mildly, “Mr. Lupin, I understand that you and my son are friends. Were you, perhaps, out of the country when he was arrested?”

An uncomfortable expression appeared on Lupin’s face. “No, ma’am.”

Walburga raised her eyebrows, feigning surprise. “You couldn't have possibly believed that Sirius Orion betrayed James Potter. Even I, despite not having seen him for years, have known how attached he was to Potter and didn't think for a moment that he betrayed him.”

Lupin swallowed and averted his gaze. “I just…I don't know what I was thinking…Sirius, I'm sorry—”

“I'll tell you what you were thinking, Remus,” Sirius said tightly, turning his head. “Once a Black is always a Black. Right?”

Lupin flushed.

Sirius smiled. It wasn't a very nice smile. “You know what? You were right: I _am_ a Black. Being a Black was the only thing that prevented me from rotting in Azkaban, betrayed by one of my friends and then abandoned by the other.”

Lupin dropped his gaze.

But Sirius didn't seem to be done. Walburga watched as he twisted the knife deeper. Merlin, her son was a sight to behold when he was ruthless.

“Did you know Dumbledore gave Harry to Petunia, Moony? Or have you forgotten about him, too?”

Lupin’s gaze snapped up, his face paling. “Petunia?”

“Did you even _ask_ Dumbledore where Harry is?”

Lupin averted his gaze again.

A muscle in Sirius’s jaw started working. The air in the room became charged, saturated with the ancient dark magic of the house. Walburga felt goosebumps run up her spine. The magic felt almost like a sentient being, lurking in every corner at once and waiting for its master’s command to attack.

 “Get out,” Sirius said flatly.

Lupin left, his head hung low.

Silence descended upon them. 

Slowly, the magic in the room dissipated.

Walburga studied her son. “You are going to forgive him. Eventually.”

“Yes,” he said with a humorless smile.

“But you want to make him suffer a little before doing it,” she stated. “And you hate that you're capable of such vindictiveness.”

Sirius laughed.  “Am I that transparent?”

Walburga stepped closer and brushed her fingers against his clenched, clean-shaven jaw. “He deserves to suffer,” she said, tucking a strand of hair away from his eyes. “He did nothing to help you. Did he know you _at all_ if he believed that nonsense so easily?” 

He was silent for a while, his gray eyes fixed on her. He didn't lean into her touch, but he didn't pull away from it, either.

“I don't like the person I become when I'm around you,” he said quietly.

She smiled. “Stop lying to yourself, Sirius Orion,” she said. “Your traitorous ideas aside, you have always been this person. It was your Gryffindor ‘friends’ who forced you to be someone you are not.”

He continued looking at her with the same intense, inscrutable look. “Father's portrait said you would have poisoned him if I asked you nicely. Would you?”

Walburga felt her face become uncomfortably warm. She averted her gaze. “What does it have to do with anything? Your father is dead.”

 “Would you, Mother?”

She glared at him, irritated. Perhaps she had been wrong to think he was too much of a Gryffindor to use this…this _weakness_ against her. “Only if you presented a compelling enough argument.”

Sirius’s mouth twitched a little, but otherwise his expression remained serious. “When I bring Harry here, promise me you won't poison his head with the Pureblood supremacy ideas. I don't want him to feel inadequate because of his blood.”

“I wasn't going to,” she said stiffly.

Sirius snorted. “Please. Do you think I didn't notice how you looked at Remus just now? You hid it expertly, but I _know_ you, Mother.”

She scoffed. “I never understood why you associated with that boy. At least Potter was a Pureblood.” 

Sirius gave her an exasperated look.

She pursed her lips. “Very well. I can tolerate half-bloods who have manners and who respect our traditions. And I assure you any child raised in this house will be well educated in them, so it should not be an issue. Contrary to what you seem to think of me, I'm not a monster. I have no intention of abusing a one-year-old child.”

Sirius took her hand, brought it to his mouth, and brushed his lips against her knuckles. “That's all I ask,” he said. “Thank you.”

Walburga freed her hand and strode out of the room, irritated with herself.

Salazar, this was absolutely unacceptable. 

She was becoming _soft_.

 

 

***

 

It took two days before Sirius finally received the confirmation from the Ministry that his request for guardianship of Harry James Potter was approved. Although Sirius had been annoyed by the wait, rationally he knew things like that normally took much longer.  But the Blacks’ connections had come in handy, and Alastor Durke was an excellent solicitor. The wait had still made Sirius twitchy. He had wanted to secure Harry's guardianship before Dumbledore could return from the ICW conference, and they had barely managed it in time. It wasn't that Sirius was afraid of confrontation with the old man—part of him _couldn't wait_ for it—but he'd prefer to delay it until after he secured Harry’s guardianship. Sirius wanted to get Harry away from Petunia as soon as possible, and if Dumbledore had been in the country and chosen to make things difficult for Sirius, the wait would have been much longer.

“You really don't have to come, Mother,” Sirius repeated for what felt like the hundredth time. He didn't mind her accompanying him, but he didn't trust her around muggles.

“I wish to,” Walburga said shortly, eyeing herself in the mirror with pursed lips. “Muggle fashion is bizarre.”

Sirius couldn't say he agreed as he eyed the elegant wine red suit she was wearing. She looked good, as usual.

“You look fine,” he said. He pulled out his pocket watch and glanced at the time. “Come on, let's go, then.”

Walburga sighed, but she did walk over and put a hand on his arm.

Focusing, Sirius took the wards down before side-apparating them to Little Whinging, Surrey.

He knocked on the door while Walburga looked around with obvious distaste. “Why do all the houses look the same?” she said, with something like genuine puzzlement.

Sirius smiled, but his smile disappeared when the door opened to reveal a vaguely familiar young woman. 

“You!” she said, paling.

Sirius raised his eyebrows. He'd seen Lily's sister only a few times at the Platform 9 3/4 and they'd never been officially introduced to each other, but apparently she remembered him better than he remembered her. Well, that was a bit flattering.

“Me,” he said mildly. “I'm here for my godson.”

Petunia’s scowl disappeared. “About time,” she said. “Wait here.”

Walburga scoffed and fixed her with a withering look. “We will not be waiting outside. Step aside, girl.”

Sirius wanted to laugh at Petunia’s expression. She seemed torn, clearly recognizing the air of wealth and power about Walburga but unwilling to let “freaks” inside her house.

A child’s cry made the decision for her. “Mummy’s coming, Diddykins!” she called out, hurrying upstairs. 

Sirius opened the door wider for his mother before following her inside the house. 

Walburga looked around with a sneer. “Follow the muggle woman upstairs and fetch the boy. I'll wait here.”

Nodding, Sirius went upstairs. 

But Harry wasn't there. 

He found Petunia fussing over a fat toddler in one of the rooms. 

“Where's Harry?” he said.

She glared at him over the boy’s shoulder. “Downstairs. Don't come near my son!”

Scoffing, Sirius headed back downstairs, feeling a little puzzled. There hadn't been a sign of a child downstairs. Was Harry in the kitchen?

Walburga wasn't where he'd left her. 

“Mother?”

“Sirius, come here,” she called out. Her voice sounded a little strange.

Frowning, Sirius followed the sound of Walburga’s voice and froze.

His mother was _crouched_ in front of the cupboard under the stairs, looking into it with pursed lips. “I knew I was right about muggles. They're little more than animals.”

His stomach sinking, Sirius walked over.

Walburga met his eyes. “You have always defended those animals, but can you defend _that_?” 

He followed her gaze and felt his breath knocked out of him.

A small, thin toddler was sitting in the corner of the cupboard, his eyes wide with fear. He was wearing huge clothes that were far too big for his tiny frame. His face was too thin—he looked nothing like the chubby-cheeked little boy Sirius had seen two weeks ago. Harry was sitting on a makeshift bed, Sirius realized with growing fury. Had the muggles been keeping him in this _cupboard_? 

“Harry?” he croaked out, stretching his hand out tentatively. “It's me, lad, Uncle Sirius.”

The boy shifted a little. “Pa-foo?” he said uncertainly.

It about broke Sirius’s heart. “Yes, that's right, Prongslet, it's your Uncle Padfoot.” He barely finished speaking when the toddler all but launched himself at him. He caught Harry in a tight embrace, his eyes stinging as Harry started crying against his chest.

“Mummy?” Harry said, sounding lost and confused. “Dada?”

Sirius swallowed the lump in his throat and got back to his feet with the toddler  in his arms. “Your mum and dad are in heaven, Prongslet,” he said hoarsely, stroking Harry's tiny back. “But I’m going to take you home with me, mate. You love your Uncle Padfoot, don't you?”

Sirius wasn't sure how well Harry understood him, but he nodded against his neck, still trembling in his arms. 

Sirius met his mother's eyes. “We need to go before I curse that woman,” he said tightly.

Walburga nodded, her eyes glinting darkly. She pulled out the portkey from her purse—a quill—and let Sirius grab it with his free hand before activating it. Harry giggled in his arms, and Sirius smiled a little—small children generally loved portkey travel, especially compared to side-along apparition—so he was glad Walburga’d had the foresight to get a portkey for them.

They landed gently in Grimmauld Place’s drawing room. 

Sirius quickly changed the wards to accept Harry before they could lash out. 

“Welcome to your new home, Prongslet,” he said quietly, hoping he hadn't made a mistake by bringing Harry to this house.

Harry looked around curiously before his gaze stopped on Walburga.

She was eyeing him back, a frown on her face.

Sirius pulled Harry closer, protective. Despite his mother's promise, he still wasn't sure he could trust her with a child of a muggle-born.

 “What?” he said.

“There’s something wrong with the child, Sirius.”

Sirius stiffened. “What?”

Walburga had her eyes narrowed in thought. “I can sense dark magic coming off him. Can't you?”

Sirius frowned and looked at Harry. After a moment, he reached to the part of him that he normally suppressed—his natural affinity to Dark—and let himself feel. Immediately his senses sharpened, his body more attuned to the dark magic emanating from the various dark artifacts in the room—and from Harry.

Harry did give off dark magic, but Sirius couldn't identify what kind of dark magic it was. It had been years since he had practiced dark magic: he'd point-blank refused to participate in Orion’s “practical lessons” in the summer after his third year, earning himself a caning from his father that ended in Orion’s study being set on fire by Sirius’s violent accidental magic. Walburga had seemed both pleased by the strength of Sirius’s accidental magic and furious with him for his stubborn insistence that he wasn't a dark wizard. She had forbidden Orion to ever cane him again, but she also gave Sirius the cold shoulder for the rest of the summer. It had been the beginning of the end—or what Sirius had mistakenly thought of as the end—of his relationship with his mother.

But that was irrelevant right now.

The point was, the less a wizard used dark magic, the less attuned to it he was. But although he hadn't used dark magic in years, Sirius still had his natural affinity to the Dark Arts, which was the only reason he could feel the dark magic around Harry at all. It was almost ironic. His Dark affinity was something he had always resented, because no matter how many years had passed or how many light spells he used, Sirius’s magical affinity remained frustratingly unchanged. It was something he hadn't told anyone, not even Prongs. The worst part was, the temptation to use dark magic was _always_ there, no matter what he had told the Marauders. Sirius had told his friends that he didn't feel the pull at all, that he was perfectly fine with practicing light magic. 

It was a lie. At best, light magic felt like eating bland food. At worst, it felt like swallowing hard rocks without water. It didn't come easily to Sirius. The lighter the magic, the harder it was for him to perform it.

The Patronus charm had been the hardest spell he had ever mastered. It’d taken him eleven months until he managed to produce it. Even Wormtail had gotten the hang of it months earlier than Sirius.

_“That's nothing to be ashamed of, Padfoot,”_ Jamie had told him countless times, wrapping an arm around Sirius’s slumped shoulders.  _“I'm sure you'll get it right next time. It's a very hard spell.”_

Sirius had forced out a smile every time and tried not to think about the fact that he'd managed to master the Cruciatus curse under his mother's tutelage in less than ten minutes. It had been just on a spider, but he had been fucking _nine_. Nine. He might be a below average wizard with light spells, but he was a very, very strong one when it came to dark ones. And it made him sick. He'd always hated his affinity, this sensitivity to dark magic that all Blacks had.

But now he almost wished he had developed it better. Regulus had been weaker than him, but he was more attuned to dark magic. Regulus would have likely recognized what was wrong with Harry. Sirius couldn't.

“What is this?” Sirius said, forcing calmness into his voice for Harry's sake. “What's wrong with him?”

Walburga walked closer. “I’m not sure,” she said, still eyeing Harry’s forehead. “It feels like…soul magic. Or perhaps death magic.” She suddenly paled, looking both shaken and intrigued. “Could it possibly be…”

“What?” Sirius said tersely, rubbing Harry's back. Harry was okay. Harry was fine. Whatever it was, they'd find a solution. 

“It could be a horcrux,” Walburga said, meeting Sirius’s eyes.

For a moment, Sirius couldn't remember where he'd heard the word. 

And then he did. He remembered the ancient book he'd stolen from the Black Manor’s library when he was ten, the gruesome pictures in it, and that word. 

“How?” he managed. “Is a living horcrux even possible?”

Walburga shrugged, still looking uneasy. “Theoretically, but I'm not an expert." She looked at Sirius grimly. "If the boy really is a horcrux, we can't keep him here.”

Sirius pulled Harry tighter to him. “I'm not leaving my godson. If you don't want him in this house, I'm moving out.”

Walburga’s lips thinned. “Do not be foolish. If the boy really is the Dark Lord’s horcrux, he might possess the boy any day now. Frankly, I don't know why he hasn't yet.”

“Maybe he isn't a horcrux, then,” Sirius said, clinging desperately to that hope. “Maybe you're wrong. You must be wrong!” The mere thought of a part of Voldemort’s vile soul being inside Harry was bloody sickening. 

“You're free not to believe me and ignore the problem, of course,” Walburga said cuttingly and turned to leave.

“Wait,” Sirius said, his chest still tight with panic. “I'm sorry. Don't go. I need you, Mum.” He flushed as soon as he said that, mortified.

Slowly, she turned around and looked at him with a pinched expression. “I don't know how the Hat sorted you into Gryffindor. You should have been in Slytherin. You're more manipulative than your brother ever was.” 

Relieved that she thought he was just manipulating her, Sirius gave her a crooked smile. “The Hat actually said that Slytherin would lead me to greatness but in Gryffindor I would find friends. I chose friends.” He still didn't regret it. Jamie had been the best thing that ever happened to him.

A grimace crossed Walburga's face, but she didn't comment on it.

“I know an excellent curse-breaker,” she said. “He specializes in death magic, and his services are extremely expensive, but he's very discreet. I'll owl him.”

“Thank you,” Sirius said, leaning in and brushing his lips against her cheek. 

She glared at him. “Just promise me that until we remove that thing from the child, you will be careful. Don't ever leave your wand where the child can get it.”

“He's not possessed,” Sirius said, running his hand through Harry's messy hair. “He's just a kid.”

Walburga looked at Harry warily. “I suppose.”

Harry reached out and grabbed a lock of her hair. “Pretty!” he said, looking at Walburga with childish fascination.

Sirius laughed. “That's my boy! You're going to break lots of hearts one day, aren't you, mate?” he said, tickling Harry.

Harry was giggling, his eyes bright with joy, and for a moment, Sirius allowed himself to forget about everything but the giggling boy in his arms.

But that moment didn't last long when he met Walburga's troubled gaze.

Sirius’s smile dropped. If his mother was right and Harry really was a horcrux, the implications of it were terrifying. It meant Voldemort wasn't as dead as everyone believed. 

It meant that Harry was in enormous danger.

_I swear, Jamie,_ Sirius vowed grimly. _I'll do anything to keep your son alive and happy._

Anything.

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: mentions of incest (Sirius/Bellatrix).

 

Sirius sat in his father's study, staring blankly at the wall.

Harry was a horcrux. His mother had been right.

The curse-breaker, Antonio Rivola, had taken an Unbreakable Vow that he would tell no one about what he had learned. The Italian had looked shaken as he confirmed Walburga’s suspicions, but he had quickly composed himself and offered a solution. And apparently his solution was to kill Harry. Sirius had shown him the door.

Sirius pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed, the sound loud in the silence of the room. The house was very quiet, since Walburga had gone to bed and Kreacher had been tasked with watching after Harry. The latter was something that made Sirius uneasy, but he couldn't in all honesty say that he knew how to care for a one-year-old baby better than Kreacher. The old elf _had_ looked after Sirius and Regulus and he'd managed not to get them killed, which was something, Sirius supposed. Though he was determined to find Harry a human nanny, someone good and friendly—but later.

Now he had a much bigger and more pressing problem to solve.

Sirius opened the drawer in his father's desk (he still couldn't think of it as his own, even though as Lord of the House, he was now keyed into all protections on it) and retrieved an old bowl from it. It looked nothing special. It looked like an ordinary crude stone bowl.

It _felt_ anything but ordinary.

Sirius closed his eyes for a moment, overwhelmed by the ancient dark magic emanating from the ceremonial bowl. Then he opened his eyes, conjured a silver dagger, and made a cut on his palm. He watched the drops of blood disappear in the bowl: one…five…twenty…thirty…

Finally, when he was starting to feel dizzy, the cut on his palm closed and he felt a jolt shoot through his body. He groaned, half in pain, half in pleasure. It had been eight years since he'd practiced dark magic, and his body was unused to its force. Dark spells were a child’s play compared to true dark magic.

_I'm doing this for Harry_ , Sirius reminded himself, gritting his teeth, and said, his other hand clenched around his wand, “Familia Magicus.”

A form started materializing in front of him.

Sirius was both apprehensive and curious what form the magic would take. It was said that the family magic had the capacity to look into one’s soul and see its best-hidden secrets. Dark magic wasn't nice. Dark magic in its rawest form always had a price. And although the family magic was a mostly tamed form of raw dark magic, it was still cruel and unforgiving. It found the caster’s weakest point and used it to hurt.

So Sirius couldn't say he was particularly surprised when the magic took the form of Walburga Black. It was perfect down to the smallest details. Walburga was even wearing the same green gown she'd been wearing earlier that evening.

It spoke in his mother's voice, “You have abandoned me for years, and yet you expect me to come to your call? You are nothing to me, and you are nothing without me.”

Sirius licked his dry lips. He had to remind himself that this wasn't his mother. His mother was upstairs, asleep. This was dark magic, using his fears against him. In a way, it wasn't much different from a boggart. This was just a manifestation of his fears. He couldn't show it any weakness.

“I'm a Black of the direct line,” he said. “I'm the Lord of this house. When I call, you come.”

Walburga, or what looked like Walburga, glared at him. “What do you want?” it bit off at last.

“I need a way to destroy a horcrux without harming the living soul container,” Sirius said. “Is it even possible?”

For a long moment, that thing just stared at him with his mother's inscrutable eyes. Sirius wasn't even sure it understood the meaning of the word "horcrux." According to the book in the Black library, the horcruxes were invented in Ancient Greece, and the only horcrux created in the Wizarding Britain was created in the sixteenth century. This thing was much older; it had been bound to the Black Family much earlier than that. But it supposedly accumulated all the magical knowledge of the Blacks that had ever summoned it, so he hoped one of his ancestors had known something useful about horcruxes. It seemed likely, considering how obsessed his family was with gaining the most obscure knowledge of Dark Arts.

“Theoretically, it is possible,” it said at last. “Theoretically, a dementor could extract the soul fragment without harming the living soul container.”

Sirius snorted a laugh. “How am I supposed to make a dementor do something?” Not to mention that allowing those soul-suckers anywhere near his godson was unthinkable.

The thing looked at him flatly. “There is a ritual that can bind a dementor’s will to the wizard. If you were more dedicated to the Arts, you would have known about it already.”

Great. More dark magic.

Sirius made a face, but ordered, “Describe it.”

It did.

Sirius wrote the ritual down, resolved to look it up in the library too. He didn't trust that thing. Although it couldn't outright lie to him, it could have omitted something. Dark magic liked to hurt. It couldn't be trusted blindly.

At last, they were done.

Sirius lifted his gaze from his notes to his mother's face. “What do you want in exchange for your help?” he said warily.

After all, every dark ritual had a price, and family magic was a simplified form of a dark ritual. Since this manifestation of dark magic was bound to the family, it couldn't demand something that would harm him in any way, but Sirius didn't have any delusions that it wouldn't find a way to hurt him. His father had always said that the family magic must be summoned only when there was great need. Everyone knew what treacherous, tricky creatures these things were. Lily had once told Sirius that muggles had many stories that described dark creatures that could help the summoner for a great price. She had theorized that those stories must have been from the time wizards and muggles lived side by side, before the Statute of Secrecy. Apparently even muggles had known how dangerous these dark things could be. 

So Sirius braced himself, looking at it warily.

The thing gave him Walburga’s cold smile and put its hand on the arm of Sirius's chair.

Sirius went rigid.

“I feel very generous tonight,” it said, touching Sirius’s face. “So how about I give you something _you_ want?” it added with a cruel glint in Walburga’s eyes.

“I don't want anything,” he said warily.

“Are you sure?” it cooed, brushing its lips against his jawline. Its voice sounded nothing like his mother's now. It sounded like...

Sirius shuddered in revulsion, his hands gripping the armrests tightly.

“Deep down, you know what a bad, twisted boy you are,” it cooed in Bellatrix's voice. “Remember how much fun we had together, Cousin? I wonder what your Gryffindor friends would say if they knew?”

Sirius shoved it away and growled, “Finite Familia Magicus.” 

Pain slashed through him, making him arch and cry out. Sirius thrashed, gritting his teeth. It was punishment for not paying the dark magic's price, and it seemed to last forever.

By the time it ended, Sirius’s eyes were wet, his mouth tasted of blood, and it felt like his bones had turned into jelly. Every part of him hurt. Hurt and ached.

Cursing, he straightened up with trembling limbs and looked around warily.

She— it —was gone, the ceremonial bowl clean once again.

Sirius shoved it inside the drawer. He wasn't using that thing ever again.

Gripping his notes on the dementor ritual, Sirius stood and headed toward the library, ignoring his aching muscles. He would double-check the information before risking Harry's life. 

That thing had clearly been mental. 

 

 

***

 

Walburga didn't like children. 

She found them loud, obnoxious, and ill-mannered. Even Regulus, despite being very quiet and well-behaved for a child, had grated on her nerves. Of course she had loved her boys—she wasn't heartless—but she had never been an overly affectionate mother when they had been infants. Kreacher could take care of them better than she could, in any case. Of course she had become more involved as the boys had grown, but she had rarely held her own boys when they had been little and she was _definitely_ not going to hold a son of a mudblood.

Unfortunately, the son of a mudblood didn't seem to realize that.

Walburga glared down at Potter’s brat as he stretched his small arms to her, looking at her with wide green eyes. 

“I'm not picking you up,” she said stiffly. “You can walk. So walk.”

The boy’s bottom lip started quivering. 

Grimacing, Walburga picked up the toddler. If there was one thing she found more annoying than whiny, obnoxious children, it was crying children. 

That was how Walburga found herself walking into the library with Harry Potter in her arms.

Sirius’s jaw actually dropped at the sight of them.

He stood, his hands twitching toward them, as if he wanted to save his godson from her. It was both amusing and offending. She wasn't a monster.

“Pa-foo!” the boy said, stretching his hands out to Sirius.

Walburga gladly shoved the boy into Sirius’s arms, wondering where that strange moniker had come from.

“Good morning, Mother,” he said, looking at Potter’s brat.

“It is already afternoon,” she said, eyeing his unkempt appearance. “Have you actually slept here?”

“I didn't sleep,” he said, yawning.

She glared at him and took the boy from his arms. “Kreacher!” A crack. She fixed the old elf with a withering look. Had she not ordered Kreacher to keep a close eye on the boy? “Take the boy to his room. I found him wandering again.”

Kreacher flapped his ears. “Kreacher will punish himself, Mistress! The boy—”

“Enough,” she bit out, handing the Potter brat to the house elf.  “Take him. Shouldn't he be napping now?”

Kreacher nodded and disappeared with a crack.

Walburga turned back to her son, who had sat down and seemed to be studying some old book with exaggerated attention. She found it baffling. He'd barely looked at her once since she’d entered the room. 

“Have you found anything?” she said, suppressing the urge to tell him to go get some sleep. He was twenty-two years old, not a boy. If she hadn't fussed over him when he was a child, she wasn't going to start now.

“Yes,” he said, without looking up. “I summoned the family magic. It gave me an idea what to do.”

Walburga stiffened. “You summoned the family magic? You should have told me.”

His jaw clenched. “I'm a grown man. I don't need you to hold my hand for every little thing.”

Her eyebrows drew together. She was puzzled by his strange mood. “I'm well aware that you are a grown man. But it is not wise to summon the family magic on your own. If you do, it tends to become very nasty and personal, using your fears against you.”

“I think that thing was deranged,” he said with a harsh laugh. “I'm not surprised; I would be, too, if I were bonded to our family for thousands of years.”

She raised her eyebrows, but decided against commenting. “What did it say about the horcrux in the boy?”

“That I just need to make a dementor suck the bit of Voldy’s soul out of Harry,” Sirius said with a snort. “Easy.”

Walburga pursed her lips thoughtfully. That could work, she supposed. “I think there should be a ritual…”

“Yes,” Sirius said, looking at the book in his hands. “I poured through the library all night and found it. It should work, but…” He made a face. “It involves sacrificing the spell caster’s limb, so I was trying to find the substitute for it all morning. I'm rather fond of my hands. Though if there's no other solution, I'll obviously do it. Harry is more important.”

Walburga didn't agree. “You will not be sacrificing your limbs,” she said, walking over and leaning down to look at the book over Sirius's shoulder.

“In this ritual, sacrificing a limb is supposed to symbolize your willingness to give up something of value to you for the power over a dark creature,” she said, skimming over the text. “It doesn't seem necessary for it to be your limb.”

“I know,” he said. “But this here indicates that it must be some part of my body, not just something emotionally valuable to me.”

Walburga read the paragraph he was pointing at. She hummed thoughtfully. “You could cut your hair,” she said.

“What? No!” Sirius said, his hand flying up to his long hair.

She smiled, amused. “Do not be foolish, Sirius. Your hair will regrow. Your hand will not.” Wizards could regrow bones, but flesh was another matter entirely. “And it clearly is ‘something of value’ to you.”

“Fine. It could work.” Sirius yawned. “I’ll have to check that it wouldn't conflict with other parts of the ritual—”

“You will do it later,” she said, closing the book. “Now you will go to your bedroom and get some sleep. Well-mannered men do not yawn.”

He looked mulish. “I can function on little sleep for a few days. Harry—”

“—isn't in any more danger than he was yesterday,” she said, incensed that her son valued James Potter’s brat over his own health. “Sleep deprivation will only make you more prone to mistakes. Do you want to risk your godson’s life?”

Looking annoyed, Sirius got to his feet. “Fine,” he grumbled, turning to leave.

“Sirius.”

He stopped, his back to her.

“Arcturus has owled,” she said. “He wants to see you.”

Sirius sighed. “Tell him I'm busy. I _am_ busy.”

“I will, but you cannot avoid him forever.”

Sirius shrugged, rubbing the back of his neck and wincing. 

Walburga narrowed her eyes in suspicion. Come to think of it, he was moving strangely, as if his entire body was stiff and sore. “Did you not give the family magic the price it asked?”

His shoulders tensed up. “It wanted to mess with my head. So I told it to bugger off.”

Shaking her head in exasperation, Walburga pulled out her wand and hit Sirius with the muscle relaxant spell. 

He groaned, shuddering. “Some warning would have been nice.”

“But it is effective,” Walburga said, hitting him with the pain-relief spell, and then with the one to fix any nerve damage. “Have you known that the creator of the Cruciatus curse simply found a way to recreate the pain of a dark ritual's backlash? You were basically under a Cruciatus, and the Cruciatus damage should never be left untreated. You should have come to me straight away.”

“You were asleep,” Sirius said, rolling his shoulders and sighing in relief. 

“It's hardly relevant,” she repeated, becoming more irritated the longer he refused to look at her. "I could have helped you."

He snorted. "No one can fucking help me."

Walburga wasn't amused in the least. “What is the matter with you?” she said sharply. “And look at me when I'm talking to you!”

Sirius finally looked her in the eye.  Something flickered in his expression as he held her gaze. “I just hate this family,” he said tightly. “Everything we are.”

Walburga stared at him blankly. Just when she had been beginning to think he was starting to accept that he was a Black…

“What are you talking about?” she said.

Sirius smiled. It was an ugly, bitter smile. “Did you know that my dear cousin Bella was the first woman I’ve ever slept with?”

Walburga pursed her lips tightly. “I'm well aware of that fact.” She preferred to never think about it, but she couldn't deny that Bellatrix had stopped being her favorite niece for a reason. Sirius had been _sixteen_ ; Bellatrix had been a married woman. It was absolutely distasteful.

Sirius laughed. “Of course you are. Why did I think you didn't know? You knew bloody everything about me—including where I put my prick, apparently.”

“Stop being vulgar,” she snapped. “And your dalliance with your cousin isn’t an appropriate conversation topic.”

“Why, Mother?” he said mockingly. “After all, this illustrious family thinks there's nothing wrong with shagging your own cousin. You actually married yours, after all. I bet you let Father shag you before marrying him—”

She slapped him across the face.

Silence fell over the room.

Sirius lifted his hand and touched his unshaven cheek, his eyes full of some ugly emotion. Shame?  Disgust? “I hate this family,” he said again, his tight voice wavering. “I ran away for a reason. I bloody hated Bellatrix, but I still couldn't stop... It really fucked with my mind. I didn't want to be like that. I didn't want to be like the other Blacks: dark, twisted, and wrong in the head.” 

Walburga’s fury drained out of her when she saw the genuine anguish in his eyes.  “Who is the judge of it?” she said. “Why are you letting your Gryffindor sensibilities tell you what is wrong and what is right? We are the Blacks. We have our own rules. The outsiders would never understand you like only a Black would.”

Sirius laughed, with a hysterical edge to it. “They definitely wouldn't understand. We're all bloody crazy. Being a Black is a curse.”

Walburga studied him with a pinched look before flicking her wand toward the couch and saying, “Engorgio.” She took a seat on the enlarged couch and patted the place beside her. 

“Lie down,” she ordered. “You are tired.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Sirius lay on his back with his head in her lap. He was stiff and tense at first, but after a while, little by little, he relaxed.

“Let me ask you a question,” Walburga murmured, running her fingers through her son's hair. “Imagine a world where the Dark Lord never existed. There is no Azkaban. You never return home. You live your whole life surrounded by your Gryffindor friends. You use only light spells and pretend to be ordinary. You try to be  _good_. You eventually marry some good little mudblood and have nice, ordinary children with her. You don't teach them the Black way; you pretend you are not proud of your bloodline. You don't celebrate Yule or Samhain; you celebrate muggle holidays. When I die, you don't come to my funeral; you tell your friends you don't care.”

Sirius made a noise at the back of his throat and grabbed her hand. 

“I’d care,” he said hoarsely. “I'd always care, Mum.”

“I know,” she said. “But in that world, you are not supposed to care for anyone in your Dark family, and you would lie to your friends that you don't. You would always lie. You would be living a lie every day, pretending to be someone you are not until the day you die. Would that make you happier than being a Black?”

Sirius was quiet.

He didn't say anything for a long time. 

“No,” he said at last. He squeezed her fingers, his voice raw and hard, “And you aren't allowed to die.”

Walburga found herself smiling at such a childish demand.  _Now that I have you back, I’ve never felt more alive._

It was a disgustingly sentimental thought, but it was true nonetheless. Ever since her firstborn had left Grimmauld Place, it had felt as though she had lost something vital inside her.  She had felt as though she'd been going through the motions ever since, purposeless and hollow. The deaths of her husband and her younger son—and with them the death of their line—practically at the same time had been the final blow. Perhaps Lucretia had been right after all when she had said that Walburga was slowly wasting away. Perhaps she had been.

But not anymore. 

Walburga looked down at her son. Their eyes met, his expression difficult to read in the dim light. But she didn't need to read it to know that she wasn't alone in this. She had never felt closer to him. 

“I love you, Mum,” Sirius said in the same tone one might say _I hate you_.

Walburga squeezed his hand, her throat uncomfortably tight. “And I, you,” she said.

His Adam's apple bobbed. His jaw clenched.

She stroked his hair.

Perhaps their relationship wasn't very normal. Perhaps her love for her firstborn was too obsessive, hateful, and messy to be healthy or normal.

She didn't care. 

They were the Blacks. They were hardly normal. 

They were _better_.


	8. Interlude: Albus Dumbledore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Albus returns to England and doesn't like what he finds. Sirius and Albus meet.

 

 

Albus Dumbledore generally wasn't one to feel surprise. Surprise was an emotion for young men, not old wizards like him. But when he returned from the ICW conference in Venice to the news that Sirius Black was innocent and had been granted custody of Harry Potter, he was surprised. His surprise quickly shifted into alarm when he learned that Sirius had already taken Harry away from his aunt's home.

This was…something of a hindrance, but Albus was positive the situation could be resolved quickly once he talked to Sirius and explained to him why Harry _must_ live with his aunt.

So Albus owled Sirius, requesting to know his—and Harry's—whereabouts.

The reply didn't come for two days.

Albus was beginning to worry when finally an unfamiliar black owl delivered a letter from Sirius.

_12 Grimmauld Place, tomorrow noon._

Albus stared at the short letter in puzzlement.

“This is quite odd, my dear friend,” he said, stroking Fawkes absent-mindedly.

Nevertheless, he apparated to the Blacks’ ancestral home in London at the appointed time.

Albus suppressed a grimace as the house’s ancient dark wards wrapped around him, assessing him and judging him before finally letting him pass. It didn't hurt, but the sensation was far from pleasant. Shaking off his unease, Albus walked to the front door and knocked.

The door was opened by an old house-elf. He glared at Albus with hostile eyes before showing Albus to the drawing room.

“Albus Dumbledore is to wait here,” the elf grumbled. “Master will be here shortly.”

 _How very curious,_ Albus thought. It seemed Sirius had indeed reconciled with his family. Albus had tried to interrogate the portrait of Phineas Nigellus Black, but the former headmaster had looked at him coolly and said, “A Black’s loyalty is to his House first, Albus. It offends me that you think I will spy for you on my own family.”

Albus had admitted defeat, but his curiosity had been piqued. The fact that Phineas referred to his disowned great-great-grandson as part of the family and the fact that the meeting was supposed to take place at Grimmauld Place spoke volumes.

And yet, Albus still wasn't prepared for the sight of the young man who strode into the room.

The last time he'd seen Sirius Black, he was wearing a pair of muggle jeans, a leather jacket, muggle rubber shoes, and his hair was long and unkempt.

The young man who walked into the room couldn't look more different: he was wearing traditional heavy black robes and dragonhide boots, his hair significantly shorter and tidier. Albus’s observant gaze didn't miss the Black signet ring on Sirius’s little finger or the small silver Black Family crest on Sirius’s robes. How very curious, indeed. Sirius’s transformation should have looked odd and unnatural, but truth be told, Albus thought Sirius Black looked more natural in traditional Wizarding clothes than he ever did in muggle clothes.

“Sirius,” Albus said with a smile. “It's good to see you in good health.”

Sirius gave him a flat look. “Is it?” he said, rather coldly.

Albus’s smile faded. He gave the young wizard a longer look. “I understand you must be quite angry with me for failing you, my boy,” he said gently. “I am quite angry with myself, too. What happened was very unfortunate. I should have asked questions—”

“But you didn't,” Sirius said, cutting him off. “I'm not interested in your apologies, Professor. All I want is an explanation. Explain to me why you thought it was a good idea to give Harry to a muggle woman who hates everything magical, including her own sister—when he had two magical guardians chosen by his parents, and both of whom were perfectly capable of taking care of him.”

Albus pursed his lips, a little disquieted by the hard look in Sirius’s eyes. “May I remind you that a few days later, Alice Longbottom was attacked and tortured into insanity by Death Eaters? It clearly was for the best that I didn't let her take Harry or he would have been dead now.”

Sirius gave him an unimpressed look. “Unless you are a seer, you couldn't have possibly known that the Longbottoms would be attacked, so it doesn't explain why you gave Harry to that woman. Not to mention that you had no right to make such decisions concerning Harry. You are not his guardian. You are _no one_ to him.”

The feeling of disquiet was back.

Albus studied the hard-eyed, haughty young man in front of him and was uncomfortably reminded of why he had never completely trusted Sirius Black—why he could believe that he could go Dark and betray the Potters.

Albus had always been an optimist at heart. When the Black heir had been sorted into Gryffindor, he had been pleasantly surprised and cautiously optimistic about the boy. When Sirius had befriended James Potter and two poor half-bloods, Albus had thought the boy might truly be different from the rest of his family. But the more he watched the Black boy over the years, the less convinced he was. Sirius Black had a nasty, ruthless streak that was apparent no matter how hard he tried to hide it. The Marauders’ pranks hadn't always been harmless—more often than not, they were cruel—and Albus had always had his suspicions about who was the instigator of them. Sirius Black was also unquestionably Dark: although it was impossible to tell someone else's magical affinity for certain, Albus had noticed how much Sirius had struggled with lighter spells despite being magically powerful. And yet Albus had given the boy a chance. After all, it  _was_ commendable that Sirius wanted to be different from his other relatives.

 _But is it enough?_ he had wondered.

Now, looking at this hard-eyed wizard who didn't look any different from his haughty ancestors, Albus was inclined to say no. Because Sirius Black _stank_ of Dark magic, the kind that seeped into one’s soul and charred it forever, the kind of dark magic that people spoke of in whispers. After all, there was dark and then there was Dark. Contrary to popular belief, many light wizards used some dark spells, Albus included. Those spells, like the Severing Charm, for example, while hurtful, depended on one’s intent. But true Dark magic didn't depend on intent. It just _was_. And it took immense power and control—and dark affinity—to master it. Sirius stank of it. Albus was more than a little alarmed. 

“Sirius, Harry can't stay here,” Albus said gravely, trying to ignore his unease. “He isn't safe here. He needs the protection of the blood wards around his aunt's house.”

Sirius snorted. “Are you actually trying to imply that the brand new blood wards around Petunia’s house are stronger than the thousands-year-old blood wards around this house?”

Inwardly, Albus sighed. Sometimes he wished Purebloods didn't educate their children so thoroughly. Not only Pureblood children had unfair advantage over muggleborns, but they were also far too knowledgeable when it came to magical lore. It was… somewhat annoying, truth be told. Albus was used to dealing with half-bloods and muggleborns, whose magical knowledge was inconsistent at best; Purebloods weren't as easily manipulated.

“In this particular case, they are,” Albus said calmly. “The magic of Lily's sacrifice will protect Harry from dark wizards better than any dark wards, no matter how strong they are.”

Sirius’s unimpressed expression didn't change. “My mother and I walked into Petunia’s house without any problem.”

“I'm sure the wards could sense that you didn't mean Harry harm,” Albus said.

Sirius gave him a hard look. “And what if a Death Eater Imperiused someone nice into getting Harry for them? Those wards wouldn't have stopped them. They are _laughable_. Laughably inadequate.”

Albus's lips thinned. This was taking far longer than it should have. Perhaps it was time to reveal the real reason why it was absolutely necessary for Harry to remain with the muggles. Albus looked at Sirius solemnly. “I'm afraid Voldemort isn't quite as dead as people believe.”

Sirius’s expression remained frustratingly unchanged. He said nothing.

Albus frowned slightly, puzzled by Sirius’s lack of reaction, but continued, “I have reasons to believe that sooner or later, Voldemort will come back. That is why it's necessary for Harry to reinforce the blood protection given to him by Lily. As long as he calls his aunt's house home, the protection will remain, so that Harry will be protected when he eventually faces Voldemort again.”

Finally, something shifted in Sirius’s expression. “I believe you mean well, Professor,” he said at last. “But the difference between you and me is, I have no intention of letting Voldemort anywhere near my godson. Harry will _not_ need that protection.”

Albus sighed. “My boy, I wish it were possible, but there are things you don't know—”

“Are those things called horcrux, by any chance?” 

Albus Dumbledore didn't gape. But this time, for the first time in years, he did. He stared at Sirius with his mouth open before he remembered himself and closed it. 

Sirius smiled. It wasn't a pleasant smile. “Were you even going to tell me about it? Or were you just going to pull your ‘mysterious, all-knowing grandfather’ act again and feed me half-truths?”

Albus’s eyes hardened. “How do you even know about horcruxes? No good wizard knows about them.”

Sirius laughed, shaking his head. “I can't bloody believe you! Even now you're suspecting me of being a nasty Dark wizard instead of worrying about Harry. Nice priorities.” 

“I _know_ you are a Dark wizard, Sirius,” Albus said, looking at him gravely. “I can tell that you performed some vile magic very recently.” As a Light wizard himself, he may not have sensitivity to dark magic, but he was powerful enough to feel the unpleasant tingle of residual dark magic. “You must understand that I cannot let you raise Harry. What would James and Lily say if they knew you started using the Dark Arts again?”

Sirius glowered at him. “I imagine they'd thank me for getting Voldemort's horcrux out of their son instead of leaving it in him and hoping for the best.”

Albus stared. “It's not possible,” he whispered. Truth be told, he hadn't been absolutely positive that the dark magic in Harry was a horcrux, but he had been almost certain of it—and he had been certain there was no way to remove it without killing the child if his suspicions were correct. “You cannot destroy a horcrux without destroying its container.”

Sirius sneered. “Has it ever occurred to you to _share_ information and ask help from people who actually practice dark magic? No wizard knows everything, not even you. It's pretty arrogant of you to think that your knowledge is absolute.”

Albus frowned. Perhaps it _had_ been rather arrogant of him to think that other people couldn't know more than him on the subject, but in his defense, the Blacks were probably the only family with more magical knowledge than him.

Albus sighed inwardly. He studied the stony-faced young man in front of him and didn't like what he saw. It might be his last chance to not lose him completely.

 “I'm greatly relieved that you were able to get the horcrux out of Harry, my boy,” he said. “But it is not that simple, I'm afraid. I believe Voldemort made other horcruxes.” 

This time Sirius finally reacted as he was supposed to—he paled. 

But after a few moments, his jaw clenched resolutely and he gave Albus a hard look. “It doesn't change anything. We’ll find them and destroy them. Harry will never have to face him. He's a child. We’re the adults.”

Albus wondered about the “we.” He didn't think Sirius meant him. So who? Remus Lupin? Someone else?

“My boy, you absolutely _cannot_ tell anyone about horcruxes—”

“Let's get something straight, Professor,” Sirius cut him off, his eyes narrowing. “You are not Harry's guardian. I am. You can't make any decisions concerning him; I will be the one doing it. You're here as a courtesy, nothing more. I don't answer to you—I’m not a student you can give a detention to—and I don't owe you any explanations for my actions. You have no authority over me.”

For the first time in a very long time, Albus Dumbledore felt dread. “You're still a member of the Order of the Phoenix.”

Sirius laughed harshly. “You didn't remember about it when I was locked up in Azkaban without a trial. How bloody convenient your memory is—for you.”

Albus felt a pang of remorse, but he still didn't appreciate the young man's tone. “You're forgetting yourself, Sirius,” he said, straightening up to his full height and loosening his hold on his magic a little. Albus didn't like using his magic as an intimidation tactic and means of persuasion, but needs must. Getting Sirius under control was of paramount importance.

Sirius’s shoulders tensed up. “I think you're the one forgetting something, Professor,” he said, his voice quiet and even. “It's never a good idea to threaten a Black in his own house.” As if on command, the air in the room thickened with magic, magic as dark as the family's name.

Albus went very still. He could barely breathe, the air so dense with dark magic it was difficult to take a breath. Part of him was deeply surprised—despite everything, Albus still hadn't expected that Sirius would ever accept the role of the Black heir and bond to his family magic, magic he had always claimed to detest. Now Albus was very aware that Sirius could poison the very air Albus was breathing with as little as a thought—if he wanted to. 

“You are a great wizard,” Sirius said. “I think you might even be a good man. I don't want to be your enemy, but you don't want me as your enemy either. You might be a great wizard, but you're just one man. I'm not. I'm a Black.” He smiled, but it didn't touch his eyes. “There's a reason Voldemort never went after Arcturus or Orion even though they refused to take his mark. He wasn't an idiot. And neither are you. You never forgot that I'm the Black heir, and you never completely trusted me because of that.” He met Albus’s gaze, his lips twisting. “It’s always fun living down to someone's expectations. Goodbye, Professor.” Turning around, he strode out of the room.

Albus Dumbledore closed his eyes, feeling very old all of a sudden. 

Old and full of regret.

Had he been the one to give Sirius his freedom, it was likely that Sirius would have been grateful enough to allow Albus to make such important decisions. Instead, it had been Sirius’s mother, a very powerful Dark witch with bigoted beliefs. Albus had noticed how very odd Sirius had always been about his mother. Although he claimed to hate her, Albus suspected it wasn't so simple. After all, the line between hatred and love was very thin indeed. If Sirius and his mother were reconciled, she would be an immense influence on him. Walburga Black was also one of the few people alive who'd known Tom Riddle before he became Voldemort, so Albus couldn't even use his knowledge of Tom’s past as a leverage. 

Albus supposed he could still try to take custody of Harry away from Sirius, but the chances of it weren't good. Right now, Sirius Black was a war hero who had been betrayed by his friend and unlawfully imprisoned. It didn't hurt that Sirius was also very handsome, very powerful, and very rich. The public’s opinion would be on his side. The Wizengamot’s opinion would be divided, but James Potter _had_ appointed Sirius Black as the boy’s guardian, and Albus had little doubt that the Blacks would stop at nothing until they won the custody battle. No. Any custody battle would be futile. Futile and foolish.

Because Sirius had been right: Albus didn't want him as an enemy. 

For now, Albus would have to concede defeat. If Sirius failed or got himself killed trying, Albus would step in and manage the situation for the good of everyone. If Sirius succeeded, which was a possibility, however unlikely—if Sirius managed to find and destroy Tom’s horcruxes—it  _would_  be a good outcome. An excellent outcome. 

Either way, the Light would win.

Albus tried to ignore the sardonic voice at the back of his mind that sounded very much like Gellert.

_Would it? The Boy-Who-Lived raised by the Darkest family in Europe. What could possibly go wrong?_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your comments; they're much appreciated! As you can see, I'm not very good at taking a break from this story. :)


	9. Interlude II: Lucretia Prewett

 

 

Lucretia Black Prewett took a sip of her tea, eyeing her sister-in-law in mild puzzlement. Walburga looked like a different woman from the one Lucretia had seen when she visited a few weeks ago. Gone was the blank, disinterested stare and unhealthily pale skin: Walburga looked so much younger, her complexion healthy, her gaze sharp and interested. She was also dressed with more care than she'd bothered with in years. It actually looked as though she had chosen her attire instead of letting Kreacher do it for her.

How very odd. Lucretia welcomed the changes, of course; she had become increasingly concerned for Walburga in the last few years, worried that she was suffering from Black depression. The Blacks felt very deeply and had an unfortunate propensity for severe depression that eventually led to their magical core—and body—becoming too weak. Walburga was far too young to waste away in such manner, but Lucretia had been afraid that it was exactly what was happening.

Of course she could understand Walburga: the woman had lost her husband and son in the space of a few weeks, leaving her alone in this mausoleum of a house. Though, Lucretia privately thought Walburga hadn't been herself for years before Orion and Regulus's deaths. Of course Lucretia had never voiced _that_ opinion. She knew better than to even hint at Sirius’s existence in her sister-in-law’s presence.

Frankly, Lucretia could never understand Walburga’s relationship with her eldest son. Grimmauld Place was a war zone every time Sirius had come home from Hogwarts, especially in the last few years before he left. When Lucretia had visited them in the summer, she always seemed to come across Sirius and Walburga yelling at each other. Lucretia had tried to reason with them the first few times, but they had completely ignored her.

 _“It's useless,” Orion would tell Lucretia, pulling her away from the room._ Her brother had sounded resigned--and tired. It made Lucretia wonder. She sometimes wondered if Orion had disliked his son because Sirius had the qualities Orion lacked--the sheer force of Sirius's personality was obvious even when Sirius was a teenager. Of course Sirius's blood-traitor ideas hadn't endeared him to Orion, either.

When those blood-traitor ideas had eventually become too much and Sirius had left his family the summer after his sixth year, Lucretia had barely recognized Grimmauld Place: it was so very quiet. She hadn't known that silence could be so loud. Everyone in the house seemed equally unsettled by that silence. Regulus had seemed anxious, Orion had looked grim, and Walburga...the fire in her was absolutely gone, replaced by empty, cold bitterness. She had only become worse in the past few years.

That was why Lucretia didn't understand the sudden change in her old friend—and she definitely didn't understand why Walburga was suddenly so interested in Tom Riddle.

“You know we weren't that close,” Lucretia said. 

Walburga gave her a flat look, her lips twitching. “You shagged Riddle for the better part of your seventh year,” she said dryly.

Lucretia felt her face become warm. She hadn't thought Walburga had known about _that_.  Not that Lucretia was ashamed of her dalliances, but that particular dalliance was something she'd tried to hide from Walburga, knowing her opinion on half-bloods. Lucretia had always been much more liberal than her friend.

She took another sip of her tea.

“Riddle wasn't one to talk about his family,” she said at last. “He was very tight-lipped about it besides the fact that he was Slytherin's descendant.” Lucretia didn't understand why Walburga was suddenly so interested in a half-blood who had gone abroad ages ago and hadn't returned, as far as Lucretia knew.

Walburga looked thoughtful. “Did he have any family heirlooms he was fond of?”

Lucretia started shaking her head when she did remember something. “He had a ring he never took off,” she said slowly, straining her memory. “A gold ring with a strange black stone. He said it was a family heirloom.”

Walburga nodded, frowning. “I think I recall it now. Did he have other valued possessions?”

“Walburga, I don't understand why you're asking me about—”

“Humor me,” Walburga said.

Lucretia sighed. “Well, Tom was a bit odd. Don't get me wrong: he was incredibly handsome and charming, but I'm quite certain there was something  _wrong_ with him. He didn't seem to care much for people, but he was incredibly possessive of some of his things. He had a book of some sort that he was very attached to. Small and black. It absolutely stank of dark magic. I don't think it was a family heirloom—it looked quite ordinary—but he never let me touch it. I remember Rosier touching it once and Tom cursed him so nastily that Rosier spent a month in the hospital wing, though obviously he didn't tell anyone that it was Riddle who had attacked him.”

Walburga looked pensive. "Did you sense what kind of dark magic the book gave off?"

Lucretia shrugged. "You know my sensitivity to dark magic has never been as good as yours. I could only sense that it was very, very dark--and strange. I never encountered that kind of dark magic before."

Walburga seemed pleased for some reason.

Before Lucretia could ask her what all the questions were about, the door opened and a man entered the room.

Lucretia did a double take. For a moment, she almost thought it was her late brother, but the man looked different enough to make her realize how foolish she was being. This wizard's jaw was firmer and more stubborn than Orion’s, his lips fuller, the shape of his eyebrows completely different. Not to mention that he was a great deal younger--and very alive.

”Sirius?” Lucretia said faintly. Although she had read about Sirius’s release from Azkaban in the Prophet, Grimmauld Place was the last place she had expected to see him.

“Auntie,” he said with a roguish smile that made him look even more handsome. “You look as radiant as ever.”

Utterly bewildered, Lucretia looked from her nephew to Walburga, half-expecting Walburga to pull out her wand and curse her traitorous son.

Walburga did no such thing. Instead, she calmly watched Sirius pick up Lucretia’s hand and brush his lips against it. When Sirius turned to Walburga, she smiled at him slightly.

Lucretia blinked, certain she must be dreaming. Or at least hallucinating. 

“I didn't expect you back so soon,” Walburga said. “Is Lord Black not well enough to recieve visitors?”

Sirius snorted. “He’s as healthy as a hippogriff— that man will outlive us all. He was his grumpy, charming self. Said he was glad I came to my senses.” He pulled a face. “Among other things. I left before I could hex him. I can stand the old grouch only in small doses.”

Walburga didn't chastise Sirius for his disrespectful words toward the patriarch of the family. Lucretia had never been so perplexed.

“Are you…Walburga, is Sirius—” She cut herself off, out of habit than anything, irrationally terrified that she’d dared say the Traitor’s name.

Walburga nodded. “Yes, my son has returned home.”

Sirius’s expression became sardonic. “More like, I was strong-armed into returning home.”

When Walburga shot him a withering look, he grinned at her.

Lucretia felt like pinching herself.

“I'm not going anywhere, Mother,”  Sirius said, his tone unexpectedly serious.

Walburga pressed her lips together tightly before looking at Lucretia. “As you can see, he's back, and he's still incorrigible.” Lucretia thought that if Walburga was trying to sound scathing, she completely failed, because she just managed to sound fondly exasperated.

Lucretia didn't know what to think. It wasn't as though she had thought Walburga didn't love her firstborn—quite the opposite—but she'd never expected them to overcome their pride and settle their differences. 

“Am I interrupting something?” Sirius said, flopping down on the couch next to Walburga and grabbing a biscuit from the tray. 

“No. We were just reminiscing our Hogwarts days,” Walburga said, exchanging a look with Sirius that Lucretia couldn't read.

Sirius quirked his eyebrows a little, finishing the biscuit in a few quick bites before reaching for another.

Walburga gave him a somewhat annoyed look. “Are you hungry?”

“Starving,” Sirius said, patting his flat stomach.

“Kreacher!” Walburga said. _Crack_. “When will dinner be ready?”

The house-elf seemed confused. “It is always served at six o’clock, Mistress.”

“My son is hungry. Serve it as soon as it’s ready.”

Kreacher looked vaguely scandalized but grumbled, glaring at Sirius, “Kreacher will do as Mistress says.”

As the elf disapparated, Lucretia put on her best inscrutable expression, hiding her amazement. She didn't understand. She didn't understand how Walburga could go from refusing to even say Sirius’s name to…to _this_.

“It's wonderful to have you back, nephew,” Lucretia said genuinely. She'd always been rather fond of Sirius. He was so very charming—when he wanted to be. And just like Lucretia, he wasn't afraid of having fun, unlike most of their relatives.

“Thanks, Auntie,” Sirius said, glancing at her for a moment before returning his gaze to Walburga. “The Aurors have caught Peter. There will be a trial soon.”

Walburga studied him. “Will you be testifying?”

Some emotion, something dark and ugly flickered across Sirius’s face. “Yes. I want him to be Kissed.”

Lucretia frowned. “If you are talking about Pettigrew, I doubt he will be Kissed, Sirius. Even the fact that he killed twelve muggles likely won't be enough. The Wizengamot seems rather reluctant to sentence even the most notorious Death Eaters to a Kiss.” For a reason.

“I want him Kissed,” Sirius repeated, his eyes dark with hatred.

Lucretia eyed him warily. All of the Blacks felt deeply, but Sirius always seemed to _burn_ with emotion, as bright as the star he was named after. It was as unnerving as it was fascinating.

Walburga took a sip of her tea, her eyes on Sirius. “Then get him Kissed,” she said. 

Lucretia shivered involuntarily. The Dementor’s Kiss was the worst punishment she could imagine. It was said that the souls swallowed by a Dementor suffered unimaginable torture for an eternity. She wasn't surprised by Sirius’s vindictiveness—that boy had always been rather ruthless behind his charming exterior—but it still made her a little uneasy that Walburga was actually encouraging this madness. No one deserved to be Kissed. No one. “Sirius, maybe you shouldn’t…”

“Any advice?” Sirius said, looking at his mother. 

Walburga frowned pensively. “Most Wizengamot members have children and grandchildren. Their emotions can be manipulated. Play up the fact that Pettigrew pretended to be a doting uncle to the Boy-Who-Lived before handing the child to the Dark Lord. Crimes against children always get punished more harshly than crimes against adults. It should work, especially considering who the child in question is. I can contact some Wizengamot members if you want, but you should be able to get him Kissed if you play your cards right.”

Sirius nodded, looking thoughtful. “Thank you.” 

Walburga smiled a little. “Go get changed before dinner. It should be ready soon.”

Sirius stood and left with a murmured, “Ladies.”

Lucretia stared at Walburga while Walburga sipped her tea.

“I almost forgot how odd you've always been about him,” Lucretia said. "You either hated him or adored him. There was never a middle ground."

Walburga raised her eyebrows. “He's my firstborn. Of course I love him--when he isn't behaving like a traitor.”

Lucretia chuckled. “Please. Our family is known for obsessing, but your relationship with your eldest son has always been strange even by our standards." She smirked.

Walburga glared at her. “Get your mind out of the gutter, Lucretia. I love him as a mother loves her son. Your insinuations are sickening.” 

Lucretia leered, just to annoy Walburga. Making her furious was always so fun. “By the way, my dear nephew has certainly grown into a fine man. I wouldn't mind a tumble with him.”

Walburga gave her such an exasperated look that Lucretia couldn't suppress her laughter anymore. “You used to be so much more fun, Walburga! Lighten up. Where's your sense of humor?”

“Where is your sense of propriety?” Walburga said. “You sound like a trollop.”

Lucretia shrugged. “I'm a healthy woman with healthy desires. I see nothing wrong with it. And you're one to talk, my dear. I distinctly remember you letting Abraxas Malfoy into your knickers when you were sixteen. He was already engaged at the time.”

Walburga didn't look ashamed in the least. “So?” she said haughtily.

Lucretia smirked. “And then there was Orion when you were seventeen, and then Abraxas _again_. His poor wife. I'm surprised he managed to get her with a child when he spent so much time in your bedroom. It's particularly amusing considering that you think the Malfoys are upstarts. I take it Malfoy must have been good for _something_ if you tolerated him for so many years.” She smirked. “I'll have to ask Narcissa whether her husband is as…impressive in this regard as his father was.”

Walburga glared at her, her cheeks a little flushed.  “My personal life before I married Orion is none of your concern. This conversation is over.”

Lucretia sighed. “Fine. You're no fun. Do you mind if I stay for dinner?”

“I do mind,” Walburga said.

Lucretia smiled innocently. “Even if I promise not to ogle my nephew?”

Walburga gave her a pinched look.

Laughing, Lucretia took her purse, stood, and walked to the mirror. “Very well. I see I’ve overstayed my welcome,” she said lightly, fixing her hair and eyeing herself in the mirror. She had a few more wrinkles around her eyes than she would have liked, but she still looked quite beautiful in her humble opinion. The ritual she and Walburga had performed when they were sixteen had absolutely been the best idea Lucretia had ever had.

At times like this, Lucretia loved being a Dark witch. Light witches grew old and wrinkly so much faster than them. Take Molly Weasley, for example, her husband’s niece: barely thirty years old, but she already looked older than either Walburga or Lucretia. Of course, dark magic had a price, but Lucretia didn't mind paying it for her lasting beauty. At least she would die beautiful. 

“By the way,” Lucretia said. “What's with the sudden interest in Tom Riddle?”

“Oh, just idle curiosity,” Walburga said before giving her a positively evil smile. “I was just wondering how good the Dark Lord was in bed.”

Lucretia dropped her purse.

She picked it up with numb fingers, her mind reeling. 

“You're an evil, evil woman,” she managed at last, forcing herself to stop thinking about what she'd just learned. If she didn't, she would do insane.

Walburga raised her eyebrows, still smiling. “Was there ever any doubt?”

Lucretia could only shake her head as she left. It seemed she would never learn. Walburga always managed to have the last word. Always.

Merlin, it was a good thing Sirius was back. He had the same annoying talent, and he seemed to be the only person who could ever win an argument with Walburga.

Lucretia wondered how long the truce between Sirius and Walburga would last. She would give it a month.

"Poor Master Regulus...Mistress never made Kreacher serve dinner early if Master Regulus was hungry."

Lucretia stopped and turned her head toward the kitchen. It was Kreacher, grumbling under his breath as he prepared dinner. 

Lucretia eyed the old house-elf, feeling surprised and curious. It was the first time she'd ever seen Kreacher being unhappy about his mistress's order. Kreacher worshipped Walburga. 

"Your Mistress loved Master Regulus," she said, walking closer to the elf.

Kreacher sneered. "Master Regulus was more deserving than Kreacher's blood-traitor Master. Master Regulus was a good master. But Kreacher's Mistress couldn't see it because Master Regulus wasn't Master Sirius."

Lucretia felt a pang of sadness for the grieving elf, for Regulus, and for Walburga, who had been too consumed by her hatred/love for her eldest to notice that she had another son. 

"I'm sure Regulus would have been happy that his brother returned home, " Lucretia said. 

Kreacher glared at her. "Master Regulus can't be happy,  because Kreacher failed him! Kreacher tried to do what Master Regulus said, but Kreacher couldn't do it!"

"What are you talking about, Kreacher?" Sirius said from behind Lucretia. 

Kreacher pressed his lips together and glowered at his master.

Sirius's eyes narrowed.  "I order you to answer me."

"Master Regulus told Kreacher to destroy the locket," Kreacher bit out, looking at Sirius with hateful eyes. 

Sirius frowned. "What locket?"

Kreacher clearly was trying to fight the urge to answer, but it was futile. "The vile locket Master Regulus took from the Dark Lord's cave."

Sirius stiffened.

For a long moment,  he stared at Kreacher before saying,  "Auntie, you were leaving, right?"

Lucretia didn't want to leave when things were getting so _interesting_ ,  but she could hardly stay when Sirius clearly wanted her to leave. 

"Yes," she said, stepping closer to her nephew and kissing him on the cheek. "I'm truly glad you're back. Your mother needed you."

Sirius opened his mouth but didn't say anything and just gave a clipped nod.

Lucretia headed to the Floo, wondering what all of this was about. 


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wizengamot, old enemies, new friends.
> 
> Sirius has a very unpleasant conversation with Pettigrew that reveals some uncomfortable truths.

 

 

Sirius had always been proud to say that he never used the fact that he was the Black heir to get what he wanted. Jamie used to laugh at him when Sirius had proudly talked about it (“ _It isn't actually an accomplishment, Padfoot_!”), but Sirius disagreed. Prongs didn't get it. Prongs didn't get how hard it was to fight the urge to use his privileged status—it was a deeply instilled instinct after growing up being told that the Blacks were better than everyone and watching doors open for his grandfather at a mere haughty glance. It was an instinct Sirius had had to fight for years in order to fit in, to be normal, to be a good person.

It felt strange not to have to suppress that instinct and actually use it.

The Wizengamot hadn't changed at all since Sirius was the thirteen-year-old who had been strong-armed into accompanying Arcturus on his Wizengamot duties. His grandfather had always left Sirius at the spectactors’ row with instructions to watch and learn. Sirius had grudgingly complied--there was nothing else to do while he waited for the snoozefest to be over--so he had ended up learning a lot more about the Wizengamot and politics than he would care to admit.

The Wizengamot had forty-five seats, twenty-eight of which were inherited, and seventeen belonged to various Ministry department heads and elected members. Originally, the twenty-eight seats had belonged to the Sacred Twenty-Eight families, with each family having one vote, but over the centuries, the seats had been bought, gifted—coerced—and sold to others. The Blacks now owned five seats, the highest number in the Wizengamot. They were the only family that had more than two seats, but it seemed that at some point Arcturus had stopped giving a damn about politics, because he'd completely ignored Wizengamot hearings for years. Apparently he didn't even bother sending a proxy to represent him.

Which was probably why everyone was currently staring at Sirius and whispering.

To be fair, it was also the first time he’d made a public appearance since his release, so it was probably natural that everyone was curious. 

Putting on his best I'm-better-than-everyone-in-the-room look that Arcturus could do so well without even trying, Sirius walked toward the Chief Warlock and handed him a sealed letter from his grandfather. Strictly speaking, it wasn't necessary, as everyone in the Wizengamot chamber knew who he was. Due to blood magic that had been used to create the original Wizards’ Council, the heir could represent a lord without being officially appointed as his proxy if the lord in question was absent, but Sirius wasn't willing to risk it. This particular Wizengamot hearing was too bloody important to risk it. Some people didn't know that Sirius wasn't actually disowned. He didn't want anyone doubting that he had the legal right to represent the Blacks.

Dumbledore read the letter and met Sirius’s eyes, his expression unreadable. “Lord Black has sent his heir to represent the House of Black,” he said, raising his voice. 

The Court Scribe said, “Noted, Chief Warlock.”

Immediately, Sirius’s black robes changed to plum-coloured robes embroidered with a silver letter W.

“You may take your seat, Heir Black,” Dumbledore said, his tone unusually cool and formal for him. Clearly their last conversation hadn't been forgotten.

Sirius almost wanted to crack a joke—“which one?”—but decided against it. The old bores that sat on the Wizengamot didn't appreciate jokes. They took themselves too seriously, but he _had_ to fool them into thinking that he was one of them. So Sirius just nodded and headed toward the highest row of seats. Only two seats of the eight were currently occupied: by old Lord Selwyn and a tall young man in the Rosiers’ family seat.

Sirius did a double take. 

Jonathan Rosier raised a haughty dark brow, a slight smirk on his lips. “Well, well, well,” he murmured in his obnoxiously low voice. “I've never thought I'd see you here, Black.”

Sirius cocked his head to the side and smiled innocently. “That makes two of us. I never expected to see you here, either.”

That was the polite way of saying that Jonathan Rosier belonged to the impoverished, irrelevant branch of the Rosier family. Evan Rosier had always been the Rosier heir while his older cousin Jonathan had been the spare. Despite being poor, the older Rosier boy had been as obnoxious, arrogant and prejudiced as his Death Eater cousin; he was just smarter about it. Frankly, Sirius was surprised Jonathan Rosier wasn't a Deah Eater, too. He certainly had their views if all the years of casual bullying and calling Sirius a blood traitor were any indication. For some reason, Rosier had always singled out Sirius. It had actually been a little surprising, because other Slytherins hadn't dared bully Sirius until he left his family.

Which made things awkward as fuck, actually. Sirius had always been the subject of strange looks from his housemates for the way Pureblood Slytherins had treated him—with careful neutrality. Sirius had hated it, hated feeling different, hated being reminded that Slytherins--Dark families--still considered him one of their own despite his Gryffindor robes.

Jonathan Rosier had been the sole exception. He had been the only Slytherin besides Snape (and Snivellus didn't really count, because he wasn't the one bullying the Marauders if Sirius was honest) who treated him normally.

It was probably fucked up, but Sirius had never minded Rosier's bullying. Slytherins were _supposed_ to be pricks to Gryffindors, and Rosier's bullying made Sirius feel like...like a real Gryffindor. Truth be told, Sirius even missed their uncomplicated enmity after Rosier had graduated at the end of Sirius's fifth year. There had still been Snape, of course, but Snape had always been more of James's enemy than Sirius's; Rosier was just his. Besides, Sirius's relationship with Snape was completely different--it was ugly. It wasn't as fun.

This was fun. Getting Rosier worked up was still fun.

Rosier’s eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening. He clearly didn't appreciate Sirius’s comment. “Careful, Black,” he said. “You don't have your little Gryffindor gang anymore, though one of your former hanger-ons is the reason we’re all here today. You're all alone now. If you don't watch your mouth, you might get your pretty face hexed. Or worse.”

Sirius glared at him. “I don't need anyone protecting me. And I'm surprised you aren't in Azkaban with your cousin.”

Rosier gave him a somewhat pinched look. “My cousin is dead. Sit. You’re attracting attention. I know you’re a whore for it, but I'm not.”

Sirius scowled at him, but they really were attracting curious looks, so he sat down in one of the seats engraved with the Black Family crest.

Watching Sirius with his disconcertingly sharp blue eyes, Rosier said mildly, “I'm not a Death Eater. Let's say I was... somewhat sympathetic to their cause, but bending over for someone isn't really my thing.”

Sirius snorted, batting his eyelashes exaggeratedly. “First you make a comment about my pretty face, now a sexual innuendo. I'm starting to think you were just pulling my pigtails at Hogwarts.”

Rosier rolled his eyes. "Right. That must be it. It clearly had nothing to do with you being an annoying brat."

Before Sirius could say anything, Dumbledore’s voice said, “Bring the accused in.”

Sirius tensed, his amusement disappearing. 

Two Aurors went to the door near the side of the chamber and went through it. When they came back, they had Pettigrew held between them. They dragged him over to the chair in the middle of the room and locked his chains to the arms of the chair.

Sirius didn't know what he had expected to feel at the sight of Wormtail. Hatred? He did feel it. Rage? He certainly felt it. But the emotion he hadn't expected at all was  _disgust_.

Seeing that ratty, trembling person with watering eyes made Sirius furious at the sheer unfairness of it. How could such a cowardly, pathetic, repulsive person live while James—bright, loyal, brave James—didn't?

“I always wondered why you and Potter associated with that pathetic creature,” Rosier murmured.

Sirius said nothing.

“Did you like keeping him around to make yourself look good by comparison? Surely even you can't be that vain?”

“Another word, and I'll fucking gag you,” Sirius said tersely without looking at him.

Rosier did shut up, thank Merlin. Sirius was in no mood for his shit; not now. Part of him felt as though his head was in a fog, blood pounding in his temples as rage simmered in his chest. But at the same time, his mind was crystal clear, taking in everything and watching sharply people's reaction to the list of Wormtail’s crimes. It was like he was two different persons at once, his brash, Gryffindor side warring with his Black side. The struggle wasn't exactly new to him—he'd lived with it for years—but the experience had never felt more surreal. 

“…killing twelve muggles, betraying the location of the Potters to Lord Vordemort. How do you plead?”

“Not guilty,” Pettigrew said. “I was never their Secret Keeper. Sirius Black was. If needed, I can testify under Veritaserum!”

The audience exploded.

Sirius struggled to keep his face impassive under people's stares. That—that bloody  _rat_! Sirius’d had no idea Wormtail could resist Veritaserum—it seemed it was another talent of his they'd had no clue about—so if it was true, essentially it would be Sirius's word against his. Sirius had no proof.

Wormtail lifted his gaze to Sirius. For a moment there was a flash of triumph in his eyes that Wormtail quickly replaced by the expression of misery and sadness. “Sirius Black is the traitor. He has all of you fooled! He's James and Lily’s killer, not me! Why would I serve the Dark Lord? I'm a half-blood! He's a Pureblood. He's a _Black_.”

A murmur rippled through the crowd. Some people were nodding, some looked thoughtful.

Sirius gritted his teeth, his mind working frantically. There must be something he could use to prove that Wormtail was lying… There must be…

”Sacred Oath,” Rosier murmured suddenly, not looking at him, his expression one of boredom.

Sirius stared at him for a moment before standing. “I understand this is highly irregular, Chief Warlock,” he said, addressing Dumbledore but looking at Wormtail. “But I ask permission to defend myself from slander.” 

Dumbledore nodded after a moment, looking pensive. “Permission granted, Mr. Black.”

Sirius descended toward Wormtail, all the while holding his gaze. He didn't know what was written in his eyes, but Wormtail swallowed.

“You’re a good actor, Peter,” Sirius said quietly, and yet his voice carried out to every corner of the room. The chamber was so quiet he could hear someone's loud breathing. “You've always been good at playing the victim. You fooled everyone once, and now you're already doing it again, using the fact that I'm from a well-known Dark family. I bet you feel smug about it. Except you didn't take into account that Veritaserum isn't the only way to ascertain that someone is speaking the truth. There's a far more accurate method, one that will make your fake testimony under Veritaserum meaningless.”

Another murmur ran through the crowd.

Anxiety flickered across Wormtail’s face. “There isn't,” he said, but he didn't sound very certain. 

Sirius smiled tightly. “Oh, there is. But as you pointed out yourself, you're a half-blood. I wouldn't expect you to know.” He looked at Dumbledore. “Chief Warlock, I’m willing to testify under a Sacred Oath.”

Everyone in the chamber looked confused—everyone but the Wizengamot members, who all looked shocked bar Rosier, whose blue eyes were fixed on Sirius with an inscrutable expression.

Even Dumbledore couldn't quite hide his surprise. 

Finally, after a long moment, Dumbledore said, “Do you understand the ramifications, Mr. Black?”

“I do,” Sirius said.

Dumbledore nodded before looking at the audience. “For those unaware, the Sacred Oath was an ancient form of Unbreakable Vow created and taken by the original twenty-eight founding members of the Wizards' Council: they vowed on their magic to be truthful and just in their interpretation of the law. Obviously their descendants are not bound by the original Oath, but they can still take it, since the Sacred Oath was created using blood magic. If Mr. Black is willing to take it, he will not be able to lie under it or he will lose his magic and his ability to have magical offspring. There is no way around it. One can build up a tolerance to Veritaserum or use false memories to fool a Legilimens, but the magic of Sacred Oath will always know if one is lying and will punish the oath breaker. There is a precedent of Regan Carrow taking the Oath in 1729 and losing his magic when he lied about a very small, insignificant detail. A Sacred Oath should never been taken on a whim, only when one is absolutely certain of one's innocence. Magic doesn't forgive.”

Another round of whispers broke out among the crowd.

Wormtail looked very pale but set his jaw stubbornly. “B-blood magic? You mean Dark magic? Surely it’s illegal, Professor?”

Dumbledore looked at him flatly. “It is, indeed, a form of old magic that now would be considered Dark, but it is legally acceptable as per the Wizengamot Charter of Rights, Article Seventeen. If Mr. Black takes the Oath, testifies that you were indeed the Potters’ Secret Keeper and were the one to kill the muggles, and he doesn't lose his magic, his testimony will take precedence over your testimony under Veritaserum.”

And Wormtail broke down.

In the end, Sirius didn't even have to take the Oath: Wormtail confessed. But his attempt to fool the Wizengamot didn't endear him to anyone. So it was relatively easy to get him sentenced to a Kiss—Sirius had expected that he would have to work harder for it.

When the sentence was announced, Wormtail broke into sobs.

As the audience trickled out, Sirius walked over to the pitiful creature he once called a friend and looked at him. The rage inside him was gone, leaving only the hollow feeling of disgust and sadness. Sirius would feel sorry for Peter if he still didn't dream every night of James’s cold, still body in his arms, of hazel eyes wide with horror. 

“Why did you do it?” Sirius said quietly. “James loved you. He thought of you as a brother.”

Wormtail lifted to him his tear-filled gaze and laughed bitterly. “He loved _you_. I was just Peter, ordinary, stupid Peter who agreed with his every word. It's like I disappeared every time you walked into the room.”

Sirius shook his head. “He loved you,” he repeated, knowing he was telling the truth. Prongs hadn't been like him—he had loved everyone. He’d had a big heart and had truly loved and trusted this petty, vile man. “If he loved me more, it doesn't mean he didn't love you too.”

Wormtail smiled. “Tell that to your dead brother. You're the reason he became a Death Eater, you know.”

Sirius’s fists clenched. “What is it supposed to mean, you wanker?”

“Regulus knew what it was like to constantly live in your shadow. He told me he was tired of being defined by not being you. I definitely could relate.”

Sirius opened his mouth and then closed it.

Wormtail gave him another nasty smile. “What's the matter, Padfoot, kneazle got your tongue? The truth hurts, doesn't it? You've always been so  _blind_ in your arrogance. I sometimes couldn't believe how you fooled people into thinking that you weren't an entitled, spoiled prat like all Slytherins.”

“Shut up,” Sirius said tightly.

”It's not just Regulus. James’s death is your fault, too. If you didn't exist or if you were sorted into Slytherin with the rest of your crazy family, James would have loved _me_. And he would be alive.” Wormtail laughed. “You ruin everything you touch. How does it feel to have so much blood on your hands, Padfoot?”

Sirius felt as though he'd been gut-punched.

Wormtail was still laughing hysterically as he was led away by the Aurors. 

Sirius stood, unmoving, his unseeing gaze fixed on where Wormtail had just been.

_He's right_ , a voice whispered at the back of his mind. If Sirius hadn't decided to be different—if he had chosen Slytherin—James would have never become his friend and Peter would have no reason to resent him. Peter would have no reason to betray the Potters.

Jamie would have been alive if it weren't for Sirius. 

The thought made Sirius nauseous.

Regulus's death was partly his fault too. Reg had been a good kid at heart. Reg had gone to Voldemort just because he had wanted to be  _seen_. To be noticed by their parents for something  _he_ did, not what Sirius did.

_You ruin everything you touch._

His throat uncomfortably tight, Sirius strode after Wormtail. “I didn't ruin Remus,” he gritted out, grabbing Wormtail’s shoulder and shaking him. “You're bloody wrong.”

“Unhand the prisoner, sir,” the female Auror said, but Sirius ignored her, glowering at Wormtail.

Wormtail sneered. “You nearly made him a murderer. Not to mention that you completely stomped all over his idiotic feelings.”

Sirius could only stare.

Wormtail smiled. It wasn't a pleasant smile. “Right, of course you didn't even notice that Remus was in love with you. You never notice things that are inconvenient for you.” His gaze swept over Sirius’s traditional Wizarding clothes. He sneered again. “At least you stopped pretending that you're not the self-important, privileged prat you are.”

“You killed Jamie,” Sirius growled out. “ _You_. Your pathetic insecurity isn't a good enough excuse for what you did. You're a killer, Peter. You killed a man who called you a brother. Don't bloody try to make it about me. It isn't.”

Wormtail’s lips thinned. He looked away for a moment before looking back at Sirius. “I killed James and  _Lily_. Or have you already forgotten about her? Admit it: you don't really give a shit that she’s dead. You aren't any better than me.”

“Stop making it about me,” Sirius managed through the rage clogging his throat.

Wormtail snorted. “It's always been about you, Sirius. That’s the problem.” He looked at the Aurors and spat, “Stop bloody staring at him and do your job. He isn't that good-looking.”

The female Auror flushed and yanked Wormtail’s chain. “Move.”

The male Auror looked between Sirius and Pettigrew, his expression pensive, before following them.

Wormtail suddenly turned and looked back at Sirius with a sneer. “Tell Remus he owes me a galleon. I told him you'd run back to your family--to your mummy--the moment things got a little hard. I was right.”

Sirius’s blood boiled. A little hard? Being thrown into Azkaban without a trial and abandoned by all his friends was “a little hard”? Fuck Peter. 

Sirius said flatly, “I hope that thought comforts you as you get your Kiss.”

Wormtail went deathly pale, his sneer slipping.

Sirius smiled. “Have you even been around a Dementor, Peter? Of course not, or you would never say that being in Azkaban is a little hard. You're an idiot—you've always been—and I'm done wasting my time on someone so pathetic. You're _nothing_.”

The last thing he saw as he turned away was Wormtail’s face flushing with rage and humiliation.

Never let it be said that the Blacks didn't know how to hurt someone where it hurt the most.

“Well, that was interesting,” a familiar voice drawled lazily, blue eyes laughing.

“Bugger off, Rosier,” Sirius said with a sigh and turned away, feeling a bit hollow. He suddenly badly wanted to see Harry, to inhale the sweet, innocent scent of his godson, and try to remember that he was a good person.

_You ruin everything you touch._

_You never notice things that are inconvenient for you._

_How does it feel to have so much blood on your hands, Padfoot?_

"You do realize that he was just trying to make you feel like shit, right?" Rosier said,  still sounding bored but a little curious. 

Sirius looked back at him, deeply suspicious. "What do you want,  Rosier?"

Rosier shrugged. "Nothing. Just stating the obvious."

Sirius didn't buy it. He stepped closer and glared him down, which wasn't easy considering that Rosier was actually an inch taller. "What do you want?" Sirius repeated. "Why are you being so helpful all of a sudden? You always hated me."

"Hate is too strong a word," Rosier said, dropping his gaze as he ran a hand through his dark hair. Smiling ruefully, he shrugged again and looked Sirius in the eye. There was something strange in those blue eyes, but Sirius couldn't put a finger on it. "We aren't boys anymore. And there aren't that many Purebloods our age who are not dead or arrested."

Sirius gave him an incredulous look. He barked a laugh. "Are you trying to say we should be friends?"

Rosier gave him a sour look. "All I'm saying is that our kind should stick together. I have sisters."

Sirius stared at him. "Please tell me you aren't actually trying to play a matchmaker."

Rosier grimaced, looking thoroughly annoyed with the subject. "Not me. My mother told me to tell you that she expects you at our Yule ball."

"I don't know your mother," Sirius said skeptically. 

Rosier snorted. "As if that ever stopped that woman. You're the most eligible bachelor in the country. Get used to it, Black."

Sirius made a face.

Rosier chuckled. "How about I buy you a firewhiskey at the Leaky Cauldron?"

Sirius eyed him for a moment. Rosier was an arrogant prick. He was Dark, Pureblood, and Slytherin: qualities he had always avoided when he chose his friends, because he had liked pissing his family off. But fuck it, there was something about Rosier that appealed to Sirius--maybe his cocky confidence reminded him of James--and it wasn't as though Sirius had many friends these days.

"Why not?" he said at last. 

Rosier's lips curled, something flickering in his eyes.

Sirius followed him out of the Wizengamot chamber, hoping he hadn't just made another mistake.

But damn it, he was tired. James's death,  Azkaban, Wormtail, horcruxes, Regulus, Harry, his mother, the Black heir responsibilities Arcturus was forcing on him now that Sirius was back--all of it was starting to drive him crazy. Sometimes he felt like he was about to explode or punch someone. He just wanted... he just wanted to be a normal twenty-two-year-old bloke for a short while. Having a few drinks with Rosier would mean nothing; it wouldn't make them best friends.

His best friend was dead.

Sirius's lips twisted as he imagined James's reaction. _Having a drink with Rosier, Padfoot? That bloke has always been a bit weird about you. Why don't you owl Remus instead?_

Sirius pushed the thought away. He wasn't ready to talk to Remus. He wasn't even all that angry with him anymore, but... If Wormtail hadn't been just messing with his head--if he was right about Moony's...feelings--Sirius didn't know how to handle it. He loved Moony, but not that way. What was he supposed to do about it now?

Bloody hell, as if he didn't have enough complicated relationships already.

_You're just proving Wormtail right by ignoring the issue_ , a voice said at the back of his mind. 

Sirius ignored it. 


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Rosier is mysterious, and Sirius and Walburga have a fight.

"Do you think he was lying?"

"Hmm?"

Sirius looked at Rosier over the rim of his glass. It was his fourth or fifth of the evening, and he was distantly aware that he should probably stop. But he felt good, the firewhiskey felt satisfying as it burned down his throat, and Rosier looked friendlier with each drink.

"Do you think Peter was lying?" Sirius repeated. "About Remus being, you know?"

Rosier's blue eyes just looked at him for a long moment. They were kind of creepy, Sirius decided. They were ridiculously hard to look away from.

"In love with you?" Rosier clarified, leaning back in his seat.

Sirius nodded.

Rosier smiled crookedly. "I haven't seen Lupin since I graduated, but even back then, anyone with eyes could see that Lupin was completely gone on you. He was ridiculously obvious."

Sirius took a big swig from his drink. Merlin, he really had been blind. He owed Remus an apology.

"If it's any consolation," Rosier said, nursing his drink, "he wasn't acting much different from half of the school, so that's probably why you didn't notice that something was off about Lupin."

Sirius blinked. "Wow, I think that's the nicest thing you've ever said to me."

Rosier snorted. "Personally, I don't get the appeal, but there's no accounting for taste."

Sirius smirked widely. "The lady doth protest too much, methinks."

Rosier looked unfazed. "Your vanity has no bounds. Do you _want_ me to tell you that I was secretly pining after you back in school?"

Sirius grinned. "Were you?"

"I have a better taste than that," Rosier said. "Personally, even if I were into blokes, Potter would have likely been my type rather than you."

Sirius made a mock-hurt face. "Ouch." He took another sip from his drink, acutely aware of Rosier's eyes on him.

He looked up and let their eyes lock.

_Why are you looking at me?_

"Some people thought you and Potter were an item," Rosier commented, watching Sirius like a hawk, his lazy tone at odds with his intense gaze.

"Huh?" Sirius said, forgetting what they were talking about for a moment. Fuck, maybe he was a little drunk already. The world seemed weirdly slow, only Rosier's creepily intense eyes in sharp focus.

"Some people thought you and Potter were a couple," Rosier repeated, his tone very neutral.

Sirius smiled, feeling almost nostalgic.  "I know. Even Lily sometimes joked about that."

"Were you?"

Sirius let out a laugh. "Of course not. James was like a brother to me. He _was_ my brother. Besides, we were the heirs of our respective families. Even James's parents would have frowned at that. Mine would have disowned me outright."

Personally, Sirius had always thought prejudice against homosexuality was bloody ridiculous and outdated, considering that nowadays there were charms and potions to help two males have a child, but Pureblood society was still stuck in the Middle Ages. Homosexuality wasn't really spoken about in polite company, especially when it came to heirs of the Sacred Twenty-Eight families. The heir was supposed to marry a good girl from a good family and put the next heir in her belly. Anything else was too scandalous.

Rosier nodded, his hooded gaze unreadable. "Is your mother pushing you to marry?"

Sirius almost choked on his drink. He coughed. "Not really," he said. "Blacks don't marry young."

"Ah."

Sirius felt his face become warm. "What is it supposed to mean?"

"Is she too possessive of you to share you with another woman?" Rosier said, his eyes laughing. "I always had a feeling you were mummy's boy."

"Fuck you," Sirius said, kicking him under the table.

Rosier cocked his head to the side. "Your mother is still a stunner," he said. "You look a bit like her."

Sirius waggled his eyebrows. "I thought I wasn't all that pretty?"

A faint flush appeared on Rosier's stubbled cheeks. "Still fishing for compliments, Princess?"

Sirius raised his eyebrows with a smirk. "You're the one who keeps telling me how pretty I am and then denying it."

Rosier rolled his eyes. "Fine, you're the prettiest girl in the room. Can we move on now?"

Sirius laughed. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had so much fun just talking to someone. No, he did remember: the last time he'd talked to Prongs as they joked and laughed over the fact that Harry seemed to prefer Sirius to his own dad.

Rosier wasn't James. In fact, he was James's opposite in every way. The only thing they had in common was their confidence. Rosier was darker, and Sirius didn't just mean the dark magic that rolled off him in gentle waves and tickled Sirius's senses. Rosier had a hard, manipulative edge that James definitely hadn't. But he was still very easy to talk to. Granted, their dynamic was completely different from Sirius's friendship with James, their banter laced with innuendos and hostility, but it was all in good fun. Sirius didn't want another James. He missed his best friend like a lost limb, but he didn't want to replace him with a poor man's version of James. Rosier was just Rosier, and it was... it was enough.

"A knut for your thoughts?" Rosier murmured, eyeing Sirius curiously over the rim of his glass.

"I think I'm going to keep you," Sirius said before blinking slowly. Bloody hell, maybe he'd really had too much to drink.

Rosier stared at him. "You're such a spoiled brat. I'm not a thing you can just keep, you tosser."

Sirius raised his eyebrows. "Says who?"

Rosier chuckled, shaking his head. He put a few galleons on the table, stood, and looked at Sirius in an assessing manner. "It's getting late and I promised Anastasia I'll help her with her Ancient Runes project. Can you get home on your own?"

Sirius gave him an affronted look. "I'm not that drunk."

Rosier's expression became pinched. "All drunk idiots say that. Come on, I'll side-along-apparate you to Grimmauld Place. I'm not as drunk as you."

"You're being awfully nice," Sirius said, getting to his feet. His legs were a little bit shaky, so it looked like Rosier wasn't wrong. "You're not nice, so you must be up to no good."

Rosier snorted, slinging an arm around Sirius's shoulders. "What's the matter, Black, afraid I'll take you to some creepy dungeon and do some bad things to you? You wish."

Sirius was still laughing as Rosier apparated them.

"Home sweet home," Sirius said, looking at Grimmauld Place's rather sinister facade.

"Very dramatic," Rosier commented, eyeing the house. "It looks like you inherited your penchant for dramatics from your ancestors."

Sirius elbowed him. Realizing that he was still leaning against Rosier, Sirius pulled away. Immediately, he shivered and cast a warming charm on himself. The night was pretty cold.

"Don't forget about my mother's Yule ball," Rosier said.

"It's still more than a week away," Sirius said, shrugging. "I'll likely see you before that."

Rosier's blue eyes seemed very bright in the moonlight. "I'm sure you will."

There was a moment of silence as they just looked at each other--and then Rosier disapparated.

Sirius blinked at the spot Rosier had just been standing on and shook his head, feeling a little off-balance. The street seemed a lot quieter and darker all of a sudden. Sirius wondered if this was what people meant when they talked about charismatic people--the world seemed a little less vibrant once they left. James'd had that kind of power too, but Rosier's was... different, somehow.

Shaking his confusing, drunken thoughts off, Sirius turned to enter the house--and found Walburga standing by the door.

"Was that the new Lord Rosier?" she said. "What were you doing with him at this hour?"

Sirius raised his eyebrows. "I'm not a child. I don't have a curfew."

"Are you drunk, Sirius Orion?" she said, sniffing. "You are!" She sounded appalled.

Sirius laughed. "Can't a bloke have a drink with a former schoolmate?"

She glared at him. "Blacks do not get drunk. The Wizengamot hearing ended hours ago. Have you been drinking with Rosier for hours?"

And suddenly, Sirius was fed up. Putting a hand on the door, he loomed over her. "I'm not a bloody child," he bit off. "I don't have to answer to you. If I want to get drunk, I damn well will."

She swallowed. "Step away, Sirius."

"Why? Am I making you nervous?" 

"You're drunk." She pressed her wand against his throat and hit him with a sobering spell.

Sirius staggered back, nausea rising to his throat as his body struggled to adjust to being sober. "I bloody hate that spell," he gritted out, groaning.

"Then don't get drunk," Walburga said scathingly and went inside the house.

After a moment, Sirius followed her in, rubbing his face tiredly. Exhaustion was another side-effect of that nasty spell.

"Be careful around Rosier," Walburga said, pausing on the stairs.

Sirius narrowed his eyes. "Why? I thought you'd approve. He's Slytherin, Dark, and his blood is almost as pure as ours."

Walburga looked at him over her shoulder, her gray eyes troubled. "There are rumors that Evan Rosier wasn't actually killed during a Death Eater raid."

"Are you saying..."

"Yes. Although there's no proof that Jonathan Rosier was responsible for his cousin's death, everyone knows he was the one who did it. He was the one to benefit from his cousin's death. He went from being a poor relative to being the Lord of the House of Rosier and inheriting one of the biggest fortunes in the country. Don't associate with him. A man who betrays his own kin cannot be trusted."

Sirius scowled. He never liked being told that he shouldn't do something. And he liked Rosier, dammit. He wouldn't go as far as say that he trusted Rosier--he didn't--but he had a gut feeling  that Rosier wasn't dangerous, at least not to him.

"Evan Rosier was one twisted, sadistic bastard," Sirius said flatly. "He was known for raping muggleborn women in front of their husbands. If Jonathan Rosier really killed that sick bastard, good for him."

"It doesn't matter what kind of person Evan Rosier was," Walburga said sharply. "What matters is that Jonathan Rosier most likely murdered his cousin. His _family_. You will not associate with him."

Sirius glared at her. "I like him, and he might be useful. Evan Rosier was in Voldemort's inner circle. For all we know, Voldemort might have entrusted one of his horcruxes to him, so getting close to the bloke who inherited everything Evan owned will definitely make things easier."

Walburga pressed her lips together. "We have already destroyed two horcruxes, and I'm working on finding out which of the Dark Lord's followers might be in possession of others. There's no need for you to risk your life by associating with Jonathan Rosier."

Sirius rolled his eyes. "I'm pretty sure he isn't after my life."

"Then _what_ is he after, Sirius Orion?"

"Can't he be interested in being my mate?"

Walburga shot him a skeptical look. "Mate? If he were a Gryffindor, perhaps. But Rosier is a Slytherin. One doesn't stop being a Slytherin once they graduate."

Sirius sighed exasperatedly. "I'm a big boy. I can take care of myself. By the way, his mother invited me to their Yule ball. Apparently, she has marriageable daughters she's eager to introduce to me."

Walburga's lips thinned again. "We have indeed received the invitation, but I wasn't going to accept it. You shouldn't, either. Stay away from the Rosier sisters."

Cocking his head, Sirius met her eyes. " _Why_? I thought you'd be pleased by the prospect of me marrying a good little Pureblood girl and siring the next Black heir."

Walburga flushed, her expression darkening. "Not a Rosier girl," she said stiffly. "The Rosiers might be Pureblood, but they had an incubus in their line. The traits have been mostly bred out--it's been centuries--but the Rosiers still have a certain...allure. I don't want your mind being affected by...pheromones when you choose a Pureblood girl to breed. Stay away from Lord Rosier too. Obviously _his_ pheromones will not affect you, as you're both male, but he still has creature blood in him, no matter how little."

Sirius glowered at her. Sometimes he almost forgot how bigoted she was. "There's nothing wrong with having creature blood. Creature blood is not a bad thing; there isn't a Pureblood that can boast about not having creature blood." He gave her a pointed look. "Our family has a Metamorphmagus talent for a reason. Besides, incubi have more magic in their fingertip than a wizard does in their whole body. One might argue that the Rosiers are more Pureblood than we are."

Walburga just scoffed and went upstairs, anger rolling off her in waves.

Sirius let out a sigh. It had probably been too much to hope that the truce between them would last; they were too bloody alike for their personalities not to clash. But his mother didn't know him at all if she thought that telling him not to do something would ever stop him from doing it.

Besides, Rosier had been perfectly nice to him. Too nice, actually- _-that_ was a little suspicious, true.

Sirius frowned. He knew he was being a little stubborn. Whether or not the rumors about Rosier were true, the bloke wasn't exactly nice. If he was being nice to Sirius, he likely really was up to no good.

A knock on the window tore Sirius away from his thoughts. It was an owl.

Walking over, he let the owl in and took the letter it brought.

_I forgot to tell you that I have an extra ticket for the Falcons' game tomorrow--my sister changed her mind and isn't going to the game. Are you interested?_

_J. Rosier_

Sirius bit the inside of his cheek, hesitating. Rosier's sudden friendliness really was a little suspicious. He was a Slytherin. What did he want?

Sirius should probably say no.

He should.

But screw it, he was _curious_. Rosier made him curious.

Summoning a quill, ink pot, and a piece of parchment, Sirius wrote back,

_I'm interested._

It wasn't as though Slytherins were incapable of friendship. The world wasn't split into good people and Slytherins, right?


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sirius and Walburga go to the Rosiers' Yule Ball. Sirius finds out why Jonathan Rosier is so fixated on him (it's complicated). Sirius and Remus finally talk.

The night of the Rosiers' ball came sooner than Sirius had expected.

Walburga was still giving him the cold shoulder, but she had agreed to accompany him, since it would be strange if she didn't. Privately, Sirius thought that she just didn't trust him not to fuck up, as it would be Sirius's first appearance in society in years.

"You look good," she said with faint satisfaction, eyeing his high-collared black dress robes. They weren't among the clothes that she had ordered for him--Sirius had chosen them himself--but they were still expensive and very Pureblood. Sirius had been tempted to order cheap dress robes closer to the muggle style, just to piss his mother off, but then he imagined Rosier's raised eyebrows and thought better of it.

Besides, he was very aware that everyone at the ball would be curious about him, and he didn't want to give people more reasons to stare.

"You look good, too," Sirius said, averting his gaze from her dark red gown and stepping through the Floo. "Rosier Manor."

He reappeared in a grand Floo room and looked around curiously while he waited for his mother to arrive. Although he and Rosier had hung out a few times in the past week, they'd never met up at Rosier's ancestral home. It looked...nice, definitely not as depressing as Grimmauld Place.

Sirius smiled a little as his gaze locked with Rosier's across the room. Rosier made his excuses to the few guests he was talking to and walked over to Sirius.

"I'm glad you could make it," he said, taking in Sirius's clothes. "You look very pretty tonight."

Sirius snorted. It had become a bit of an inside joke between them, with Rosier showering him with mock-compliments at every chance.

"Hi Jonny," Sirius said and smiled innocently at Rosier's pinched expression.

"Don't let my mother hear you call me that," he said. "She might have a heart attack."

Sirius slung an arm around Rosier's shoulders and grinned obnoxiously. "But you love it, don't you?"

Someone cleared their throat, and Sirius looked away from Rosier to Walburga, who had her eyebrows raised slightly. Sirius hadn't noticed her arrival.

"Mrs. Black," Rosier said, stepping away from Sirius to take Walburga's hand. Smiling charmingly, he kissed the tips of her fingers, his blue eyes holding her gaze. "You look as beautiful as ever."

Sirius frowned, feeling a twinge of something unpleasant.

Walburga nodded to Rosier, her expression somewhat wary but fascinated. Now Sirius could understand what Walburga had meant when she told him that Rosiers had a certain allure to the opposite sex.

Sirius cleared his throat and put a hand on Rosier's bicep. "Didn't you want to introduce me to your mother and sisters?"

Rosier nodded, and with an old-fashioned bow to Walburga, motioned Sirius to follow him.

"Just a warning: my mother is a little obsessed with having you as her son-in-law, and I would appreciate it if you can put up with her lack of subtlety," Rosier said, nodding to the guests they encountered on the way.

Sirius could feel curious gazes on him, but it was surprisingly easy to ignore them when he was with Rosier. The bloke had an uncanny ability to draw people's attention to him, so to Sirius's relief, he wasn't the only focus of the stares.

"Mother, I would like to introduce you to Sirius Black, the heir of the House of Black," Rosier said formally when they approached a middle-aged woman.

Sirius barely hid his surprise. Melinda Rosier looked nothing like her son. She was short and plump where he was tall and fit, and she had a very kind face while Rosier's expression was sardonic most of the time. Unlike her son, she was rather plain. Sirius wondered if Rosier had inherited his looks from the Rosier line. Probably; Evan Rosier had looked pretty similar to him.

"A pleasure," Sirius said, kissing the woman's hand.

Melinda smiled at him. "The pleasure is all mine, young man. Please allow me to introduce you to my daughters, Daphne and Anastasia. Girls, come here."

At the sound of their mother's voice, two girls left their group of friends and approached them.

Sirius eyed them curiously. The elder Rosier girl, Daphne, looked like a thinner, younger version of her mother, with a kind face and pretty brown eyes. She wasn't beautiful, but she was attractive in a way Sirius couldn't explain. Maybe it was the infamous Rosier allure.

The younger one, Anastasia, was a dark-haired beauty. She looked like the shorter, female version of Rosier, though her blue eyes were nowhere near as intense. She was also grinning at Sirius in a way no proper young lady should.

Sirius kissed their hands, murmuring meaningless pleasantries, acutely aware of Walburga's sharp gaze on him and Rosier's strange stare. It was bloody confusing. While he understood why his mother was wary, Rosier's attitude was still a mystery.

Sirius was bloody tired of being in the dark.  
Judging by Anastasia's mischievous smile, she seemed a lot more likely to talk, so Sirius offered her an arm, "Would you like to dance, Ms. Rosier?"  
Smiling, Anastasia shot a sharp look to her brother before nodding and laying her small hand on his arm.

But before Sirius could lead her away, Rosier put a hand on Sirius's shoulder and leaned to his ear. Smiling nicely, he murmured, "She's seventeen. If you don't behave like a perfect gentleman, I'll rip off your prick and feed it back to you. Is that clear?"

Tearing his eyes off Rosier's, Sirius licked his lips and said, "Crystal clear."

As he and Anastasia joined the other dancing couples, he bowed to her before leading her through the steps of the traditional wizarding dance.

"You're a good dancer, Mr. Black," the girl said.

"Thank you, but it's been years since I've last danced," Sirius said with a rueful smile. "I'm afraid I'm rusty."

Anastasia cocked her head curiously. "If this is you being rusty, you must be a marvelous dancer. And if you haven't danced in years, why are you dancing with me, then?"

Sirius decided that he liked her. Purebloods rarely were that straightforward.

"Because I'm curious about something," he said, glancing at Rosier, who was watching them idly over the rim of his glass. He had a beautiful blonde on his arm, but he didn't seem to be paying her much attention.

Anastasia followed his gaze. "About my brother?" Her expression closed off. She said, rather coldly, "If you want to ask me about those ridiculous rumors, you're wasting your time, Mr. Black."

Sirius shook his head quickly. "I don't care about the rumors. I'm curious about your brother's..." He trailed off, not sure how to explain it.

She chuckled. "His weird fixation on you?"

Sirius blinked. While he wouldn't put it in those words, she wasn't wrong.

"Yes," Sirius said. "He's bloody confusing. Sometimes I almost think he's..." He trailed off again, unsure whether he should be talking about things like that with a seventeen-year-old girl. She was of age, but she was just so bloody _young_. Innocent. Sirius was just five years older, but after the war, after everything he'd lost, after everything he'd done, he felt ancient next to a Hogwarts seventh year.

Anastasia laughed. "You think he's into you? Wow, you really are as vain as my brother says."

Sirius flushed but looked at her curiously. "He talks about me?"

Anastasia snorted. "Jon used to constantly rant about you, so I feel like I already know everything about you, Mr. Black."

Sirius smiled crookedly. "Is that supposed to convince me that he isn't...you know?"

Anastasia shook her head with a smile. "I hate to disappoint you, but my brother is straight. Trust me, I'd know. Daphne and I have to deal with his ex girlfriends every other month. It's really quite tiring."

Sirius frowned, absolutely confused now.

She laughed at his expression. "All right, I think you deserve to know what's going on. Jon is too proud and too annoyed with the whole thing to ever tell you."

Sirius looked at her expectantly.

Anastasia seemed to hesitate before saying, "You do know that we have some creature blood, right?"

Sirius nodded, wondering what that had to do with anything. "An incubus, right?"

Anastasia nodded. "But it's been centuries and most creature traits are completely gone. Once in a while, if a Rosier is magically powerful, he might get a throwback trait. My brother is unusually powerful, so..."

Sirius's mouth fell open. "Are you saying he actually needs sex to survive?"

Blushing, Anastasia laughed. "Nothing like that. The incubi traits in our blood are very weakened. Besides, it's a myth that incubi need sexual energy to survive. They need intimacy, physical contact. Anyway, my brother isn't an incubus. He just got a very minor throwback trait--incubi's tendency to imprint on someone. Usually that someone is magically powerful and beautiful."

Sirius missed a step in the dance, staring at her. "Are you saying he's..." He flushed.

Anastasia laughed. "Calm down, it's nothing like that! Yes, he imprinted on you when he was a teenager, but he doesn't want you that way. It's not romantic or even sexual. All it means is that he gets fixated on you, and he likes being around you, and looking at you. Jon doesn't really talk about it, but I believe being around you makes him stronger. That's it. He isn't secretly lusting after you. If anything, the whole thing annoys him--he doesn't like fixating on you."

Sirius was still struggling to process that information when the dance came to an end.  
Belatedly, he bowed to her and led her back to her mother.

Before they could reach her, Anastasia said quietly, "Please don't treat him like a freak. It isn't his fault, and he's trying to behave normally. The whole thing is messing with his head, too. I think he resents it."

Sirius cleared his throat. "I'm not going to treat him like a freak. It isn't a big deal." It wasn't. Compared to Moony's furry little problem, Rosier's was nothing. And part of him was relieved to finally have an explanation for Rosier's long, creepily intense looks.

Anastasia smiled at him. "You aren't half-bad, Mr. Black. The way Jon talked about you while you were at Hogwarts, I imagined some terrible little monster."

Sirius laughed.

His laugh was cut short when he saw that Rosier was standing by his mother, watching them, his eyes narrowed. He looked between his baby sister and Sirius. "You told him," he said, glaring at Anastasia.

The girl winced. "I just remembered that I promised Seraphina to show her our art gallery," she said, walking away quickly.

Rosier moved to follow her, but Sirius put a hand on his shoulder, stopping him. He felt Rosier's muscles tense up.

"You should have told me," Sirius said, aware of the eyes on them and keeping his voice low. "It isn't a big deal."

Rosier made a face, looking anywhere but at him. "Walk with me," he said.

They headed out to the terrace that wrapped around the building, which probably offered breathtaking views of the Glencoe valley during the day.

They walked in silence for a while until the sounds from the ballroom became very distant.

Finally, Rosier stopped. He leaned against the railings, and said, looking at the mountains, "I never liked you, you know." He chuckled, raking a hand through his hair. "You bloody annoyed me from the beginning. You were such a little brat who strutted around the school as though you owned it. You had everything, but you acted as if you didn't care about your privileged position. I thought you were an ungrateful little brat, too spoiled to see how lucky you were. It's--it's kind of funny, in a way. Pettigrew said that he hated living in your shadow. I bloody couldn't stand you, but I wanted to _be_ your shadow. Sounds creepy, right? Because it is."

Sirius wet his lips, unsure what to say. There was a great deal of resentment in Rosier's voice, resentment and shame.

Sirius cleared his throat. "Was that how you realized that you..."

Rosier gave a clipped nod, still not looking at him. "I was in denial at first, of course. People tend to romanticize a magical creature's imprinting, but what I was experiencing was nothing like that. I fucking hated you _and_ wanted to be around you. It really messed with my head. I didn't get it." He snorted. "I still don't. I've researched what little wizards know about incubi's imprinting, and they think it's about magical compatibility, but no one knows for sure."

Sirius tried to wrap his mind around it. "Basically, your magic is drawn to my magic?"

Rosier shrugged, sighing. "It's not as simple as that. It's--it's complicated."

"How does it work?" Sirius said curiously. "Do you need to be around me?"

"No," Rosier said in a clipped voice. "I could perfectly function without seeing you for years."

Sirius rolled his eyes when Rosier didn't say anything else. Seriously, it was like pulling teeth.

"Come on, Jonny," he said, deciding to try the friendly approach and slinging an arm around Rosier's shoulders. "We're mates, right?"

Rosier was rigid against him, his muscles locked tight. "You shouldn't touch me."

Sirius studied his profile, that clenched jaw and the muscle pulsing in Rosier's cheek. "Why? Look, I really don't mind. So you imprinted on me, so what? As long as you don't want to fuck me, we're fine."

Rosier's lips twisted. "I don't want to fuck you, Sirius. I'm straight."

"Then what's your problem?"

Rosier finally turned to him and glared, blue eyes inhumanly bright. "My _problem_ is," he bit off, "is that I can't bloody focus on anything but you if we're in the same room. I was just talking to my girlfriend and I couldn't hear a word she said, because you were there, across the room, and I wanted to go to you and touch the sweet, delicious magic under your skin." He laughed a little. "No homo."

Sirius moistened his dry lips with his tongue. "I still don't see the problem," he said, clearing his throat a little. "James and I were always touchy-feely and it didn't make us gay--not that there's anything wrong with being gay."

Rosier's eyes seemed to bore right into his soul. "You really wouldn't mind me touching you sometimes?

Sirius smiled crookedly. He made a show of relaxing even as his pulse quickened. "As long as it's above the waist, touch away."

Rosier's fingers actually _twitched_. He curled them into a fist. "You don't get it," he bit off, his hand twitching toward Sirius again and stopping.

"Bloody hell," Sirius said exasperatedly, grabbing Rosier's hand. "Stop making it complicated--"

Rosier made a low sound, his hand squeezing Sirius's painfully.

Sirius stared at him in astonishment. Rosier's pupils were so dilated his eyes seemed black, his lips parted slightly.

"Good?" Sirius said, swallowing.

Rosier nodded, his eyelids dropping a little.

Sirius grinned. "You look high as a kite. It's really stroking my ego."

"Your ego doesn't need any more stroking," Rosier said, running his fingers over Sirius's before sighing and letting go. His shoulders looked looser, as if some great tension in them was finally gone.

Sirius raised his eyebrows with a smile. "That's it? You were making such a big deal over a bit of handholding? Lame."

Rosier glowered at him, but it didn't look very convincing, considering that he was kind of staring at Sirius as if he were the best thing in the world. It really was doing things to Sirius's ego, his stomach uncomfortably warm. He couldn't deny that he loved the sense of power it gave him.

"Thanks," Rosier said hoarsely.

"Anytime," Sirius said, shrugging.

They walked back to the ballroom in companionable silence, their shoulders bumping. From time to time, Rosier's knuckles would brush against Sirius's hand, the touch barely there, but Sirius didn't mind. It felt kind of good, to be honest. Sirius hadn't realized how much he had missed human contact in the past few months. Over the years, he'd become used to physical affection Prongs had given so freely. Although Rosier's touch was a lot less brotherly, it still didn't make Sirius uncomfortable; far from it. To be completely honest, the fact that he was something special to Jonny gave Sirius a bit of a thrill. Jonathan Rosier didn't want his money, his social standing, or even his body. He would still want Sirius around even if Sirius lost everything he had, even if he weren't the Black heir. The thought was...nice. If there was one thing Sirius absolutely hated about being the Black heir, it was the fact that it was hard to be sure that people didn't just want to use him.

"I forgot to tell you that I have a gift for you," Rosier said as they reached the entrance to the ballroom.

Sirius frowned. "A gift?"

Rosier smirked a little, blue eyes full of amusement and maybe some embarrassment. "I wanted to butter you up. Be a good mate, you know?"

Sirius snorted a laugh. "No buttering up is needed, but I won't say no to a gift. What is it? A new broom?"

Rosier looked at him steadily. "It's a he, and he's waiting for you in the library."

Sirius's smile faded. "What?"

"I invited Lupin to the ball. My mother was appalled, but she'll live." Rosier touched Sirius's wrist. "Go talk to him. It'll help."

"You are an interfering, overbearing arse," Sirius said without much heat.

Rosier raised his eyebrows with a smile. "Get used to it. The library is to the left from the ballroom. Go."

Sirius went.

As he crossed the ballroom, he looked back at Rosier and found him back with the blonde--his girlfriend, probably. They were smiling at each other.

Sirius tore his gaze away and headed to the library.

Rosier was right: this conversation with Moony was long overdue.

***

Remus fidgeted and looked at the ancient grandfather clock ticking sedately in the corner. If Sirius didn't come in the next fifteen minutes, he was going home, because the thought of returning to that fancy ballroom just made him cringe. The noise and the scents were too much for his werewolf senses, and the people... All other guests in attendance were wealthy and Dark.

Including Sirius.

Remus shook his head wistfully, remembering how handsome and _Pureblood_ Sirius looked dancing with that pretty girl. Sirius looked completely at ease among all those finely dressed, arrogant people. He looked like he belonged with them, and for first time, Remus realized that Sirius really _was_ one of them. He wondered how much Sirius had had to suppress that part of him in order to fit in with the Gryffindors.

The thought was... disheartening. It completely crushed whatever little hope Remus had entertained about Sirius slotting back into his life once they talked it out. Sirius would never be like him. He belonged to this world, not to Remus's.

"Moony?"

Remus flinched. He couldn't believe he hadn't heard Sirius enter. There must be noise-dampening charms in the room.

"Hi, Padfoot," he said, turning around with a weak smile.

Sirius closed the door and gave him an unsure look. He no longer smelled of anger and betrayal. Instead, he smelled of discomfort and pity.

Remus frowned. "Why are you pitying me?"

Sirius flushed, raking a hand through his hair. "I'm not pitying you. I'm just..." Something shifted in his eyes. "Dammit, Moony, you should have told me--that you were--that you are..."

Remus narrowed his eyes, a terrible suspicion forming in the pit of his stomach. "Just say it, Sirius."

"That you are in love with me!" Sirius blurted out.

Remus closed his eyes for a moment before sighing and looking at Sirius with a soft smile. "I'm not in love with you, Padfoot. Not anymore."

Sirius blinked a few times, his mouth opening and closing, as if he was unsure what to think. "But you were," he said, sounding uncomfortable.

Remus nodded, since it was pointless to deny it. Someone must have told Sirius about his...unrequited feelings. It was kind of mortifying, but Remus was no stranger to mortifying.

"Love doesn't last if it isn't nurtured," Remus said with a rueful smile. "I admit I had a bad case of puppy love for you, but the incident with Snape mostly cured me of it."

Sirius dropped his gaze, his shoulders slumping. "Sorry," he muttered, looking extremely uncomfortable.

Remus pinched the bridge of his nose. "Don't be. I'm kind of glad now that it happened. If it didn't, I would be still pining after someone who is completely out of my league."

Sirius looked offended on his behalf. "I'm not out of your league!"

Remus shook his head. "You belong to this world, Padfoot. I don't." When Sirius opened his mouth, Remus cut him off, "I really don't. But I don't need to, to be your friend." He added uncertainly, "If you still want me as a friend."

"Merlin, Moony, of course I do," Sirius said, walking over and pulling him into a hug. "I'm sorry for being a git. I was just so angry."

"I know," Remus said, inhaling his familiar scent. "I'm sorry, too--for believing that you could ever betray James. I know how much you loved him."

Sirius shook in his arms, his scent souring. Remus could suddenly smell salt in the air and realized that Sirius was crying. Remus's eyes became misty too and he had to blink the tears away. Merlin, he still couldn't believe James was dead.

He inhaled Sirius's scent again. It was comforting in its familiarity. He may not be still in love with him, but Sirius still smelled like pack--

And something else.

Remus frowned and took another careful sniff. There was a foreign scent clinging to Sirius, something aggressive and territorial. It was vaguely familiar, and it took Remus a few seconds to place it.

Frowning, Remus pulled back and studied Sirius. "Why do you stink of Rosier?"

Sirius gave him a blank look--the fake blank look Sirius usually put on whenever he didn't know how to deal with the situation.

"We're mates," Sirius said at last. "I was just talking to him--that's why I probably smell like him."

Remus suppressed a sigh. Did Sirius really think a werewolf would buy that lie? Unless...unless Sirius didn't realize that it was a lie.

Remus's brows furrowed. "You do realize that people don't smell like random people they've just talked to, right? Scent wears off very fast--unless you were scent-marked."

Frowning, Sirius shook his head slowly. "Jonny didn't scent-mark me."

"Jonny?" Remus said, raising his eyebrows. "I didn't realize you were on a nickname basis with Rosier."

Sirius's face flushed. "Is this an interrogation?" he said, his jaw clenching.

"Of course not, Padfoot," Remus said, knowing when to stop pushing. James had been the only person who could get away with pushing when Sirius started getting defensive.

"Look, I get why you're wary of him, but he's a decent bloke," Sirius said. "It was actually his idea--me talking to you and working things out. I was ignoring the issue until he basically forced me to stop acting like a git about you."

Remus stared at him. _Now_ he was worried. Sirius _hated_ being pressured into doing something he didn't want to. The fact that he apparently let Rosier do it...Remus didn't know what to think.

Well, it was probably a good thing that Sirius still had someone who could tell him when he was being an arse--after James's death, Sirius definitely needed someone--but Remus wasn't sure Jonathan Rosier should be that person.

"Okay, Padfoot," Remus said. "Just be careful, all right?"

Sirius grinned. "Aren't I always?"

Remus rolled his eyes. "No, I think the word for how you usually are is reckless."

Sirius just laughed and, slinging an arm around Remus's shoulders, steered him out of the library. "Let's go to the ballroom--there are so many pretty birds there, Moony. You should talk to them. How long has it been since you had a date?"

Remus didn't have the heart to tell him that the pretty girls in the ballroom would never be interested in someone like him.

"There are handsome blokes, too, if it's more your thing," Sirius added with a wink.

Remus shook his head with a rueful smile but let Sirius pull him toward the ballroom.

Maybe that was the problem. Maybe that was why he could never be as close to Sirius as James had been: Remus was a follower, not a leader. He could lead, but he was more content to observe and follow than to take the lead. Sirius was a leader by nature, and he'd always needed a firm hand to rein him in. Remus couldn't do it--he could never say no to Sirius.

Privately, Remus thought Walburga Black was the reason for Sirius being the way he was: after being brought up by a strong, iron-willed woman like Walburga Black, Sirius seemed to need people to push back for him to truly respect them.

Remus wondered where Jonathan Rosier fit in all of this.


	13. Interlude III: Harry Potter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The next five years from Harry's point of view. Sirius's relationships with Rosier, Walburga, and Remus through little Harry's eyes.
> 
> Or,  
> Harry _isn't_ a baby. He notices many things the grown-ups don't tell him.

Harry loved his family.

Aunt Walburga was pretty stern, and she wasn't very nice, but she wasn't bad. Sometimes she even told Harry stories. They were interesting stories, about the great, brave Blacks. Well, Auntie didn't say that they were brave, but Harry liked to think that they were. Auntie also wasn't really Harry's aunt, but she didn't seem to mind him calling her that. Harry knew that Aunt Walburga cared about her family, and Harry was family, right?

Harry loved Kreacher more than he loved his Aunt Walburga, though. Kreacher could do all sorts of fun magic and he was very good at playing with Harry, though he still wasn't as good as Uncle Padfoot.

In Harry's opinion, Uncle Padfoot was the _best_. Uncle Padfoot loved him--he always told Harry that--and he was great at playing games Kreacher wasn't good at. He could turn into a huge black puppy and he allowed Harry to ride him. It was very fun! Harry also loved the little broom Uncle Padfoot had gotten Harry for his fourth birthday, though he didn't love his broom more than his Uncle Padfoot.

He just wished Uncle Padfoot had more time to play with him.

Harry wasn't angry, though. He understood that Uncle Padfoot was a Very Important Wizard--that was what Aunt Walburga said. Uncle Padfoot was the heir of the House of Black and he had lots of duties. Harry was proud of him and proud of being his "favorite boy."

But sometimes he wondered why he just had Uncle Padfoot, Aunt Walburga, and Kreacher, and why he didn't have Mummy and Daddy like Cousin Draco had. When Harry had asked Uncle Padfoot about it, his godfather got very quiet and sad before telling him that his parents were very good people who had fought a bad wizard and died protecting Harry, because they had loved Harry very much.

Harry didn't ask again after that. He was curious about his parents, but he decided to ask Uncle Remus about them. He didn't like it when Uncle Padfoot was sad.

That was why Harry liked it when Uncle Jonny visited: Uncle Padfoot was never sad around him.

The problem was, Aunt Walburga didn't like Jonny much. Harry wasn't sure why--Jonny was fun, and he made Uncle Padfoot grin and laugh--but Aunt Walburga always glared at Jonny and got very quiet and tense when he visited.

Harry didn't understand. Grown-ups were so very confusing! He thought Jonny was great. Jonny's shoulders were very wide, great for riding on, and Jonny didn't even mind it when Harry pulled at his hair.

Jonny also gave great hugs. Harry's godfather seemed to agree with Harry on this, because he and Jonny hugged _all the time_. Seriously, they hugged even more than Uncle Lucius and Auntie Cissa did, and Draco was sure it wasn't possible!

Not that Harry talked to Draco about Jonny--strictly speaking, Harry wasn't sure _who_ Jonny was to him, even though Jonny had always been around, as far as Harry could remember.

He had once asked Uncle Padfoot about it, but his godfather seemed kind of...unsure.

"I guess he's your very distant relative," he said after a moment. "All Purebloods are related. And he's my friend, obviously, so you should totally call him uncle. Jonny doesn't mind. He likes you, kiddo."

Harry nodded, smiling.

He liked Uncle Jonny very much, too.

 

***

  
"Come on, Jonny, not here," his godfather said with a laugh. "Not in front of Harry, or he'll start thinking all mates are as odd as us."

Harry looked up from his toy Quidditch set and smiled when he saw that Uncle Padfoot and Uncle Jonny were hugging on the couch.

Uncle Jonny had his face pressed against Uncle Padfoot's neck and was breathing weirdly--greedily, as though Uncle Padfoot smelled like a Chocolate Frog. Harry loved Chocolate Frogs, and he didn't think his godfather smelled as good.

"Why do you smell so good, damn you?"

Uncle Padfoot laughed. "I haven't even taken a shower today yet, you weirdo. I smell gross."

Uncle Jonny just hummed, nuzzling into Uncle Padfoot's throat.

Harry scrunched up his nose. Grown-ups were so weird. 

Uncle Padfoot was smiling fondly, looking down at his friend's dark head. "I remember a time when you were content brushing your fingers against mine. Someone has become greedy, methinks."

"Don't remind me," Uncle Jonny said wth a sigh. "I thought things would become easier, not worse. It's absolutely not okay that now I think of your stupid scent to summon a Patronus. This is all your fault."

Padfoot chuckled, running his fingers through Jonny's hair. "It's not my fault you can't live without me," he joked before frowning. "If the withdrawal symptoms are getting worse, maybe you should come over more often."

Jonny snorted a laugh. "If I do, your mother might murder me. I've never met a woman who disliked me so much."

"Because you are spoiled by women's attention," Padfoot said, his lips twisting. "You're used to women falling at your feet the moment you look at them with your stupidly blue eyes. My mother is made of tougher stuff."

"She's unhealthily possessive of you. It's creepy. If I didn't know better, I'd think she isn't your mother and that she wants to shag you."

Padfoot raised his eyebrows with a grin. "If I didn't know better, I'd think _you_ want to shag me, but you never do. And you're one to talk about creepy possessiveness. You all but _piss_ on me every time you see me. Moony says he can't be around me after I see you--he says I stink of you so badly I might as well have the words 'Property of Jonathan Rosier' written on my forehead."

"I don't do it on purpose," Jonny grumbled. "I know it's gross. I can't bloody help it, okay?"

"Moony says that's bollocks."

Jonny muttered something Harry couldn't hear, and Uncle Padfoot laughed, loud and carefree.

Harry smiled at them a little. He loved when Uncle Padfoot was happy, so he loved Uncle Jonny.

Harry tried to tell Aunt Walburga that Uncle Jonny made Uncle Padfoot happy, hoping it would make her like him more, but she got so irritated that Harry was glad Kreacher apparated him away.

"Master Harry shouldn't talk to Mistress about Lord Rosier," Kreacher said, shaking his head. "Mistress doesn't like how close Master and Lord Rosier are."

Harry nodded, feeling very grateful to Kreacher. He was always so helpful. Kreacher never treated him as though he were a baby. Harry _wasn't_ a baby. He was four!

 

***

 

When Harry was five, Uncle Padfoot got married.

His bride was very pretty, with long black hair and pretty blue eyes. Her name was Eveline Selwyn, and Harry overheard Aunt Walburga saying that she had an "excellent pedigree." Harry wasn't sure what it meant, but it must be something good, because Aunt Walburga seemed pleased.

Harry was...a little confused. He didn't understand why his Uncle Sirius (not Uncle Padfoot, because Harry was a big boy now) had to marry some snobbish woman that stared at Harry's scar when no one was looking. His godfather didn't even seem to like her very much, though he did seem to like putting his mouth on hers. She made funny noises when he did. Harry thought it was gross.

It also confused Harry that Uncle Remus was his godfather's best man at the wedding. He knew Uncle Remus was his godfather's oldest friend, but they weren't all that close nowadays compared to how close Uncle Sirius was to Uncle Jonny.

Harry had overheard Uncle Remus and Uncle Jonny arguing about it, but Jonny still refused to be the best man.

("I can't, okay? Just leave it, Remus. You should be the best man, anyway. You've been his friend forever."

"He wants _you_ to be his best man. Sirius didn't say it, but I know he does."

"Tough luck." For the first time in Harry's memory, Uncle Jonny sounded bitter and angry. "He barely has time for me now that he's engaged. He isn't going to notice who his best man is, anyway.)

When Uncle Remus announced that he would be the best man after all, Harry's godfather smiled widely and hugged Uncle Remus. Harry wondered if he was the only one who noticed that his godfather's smile didn't reach his eyes as he stared at Uncle Jonny, who had turned away.

To make things worse, Uncle Jonny didn't come to Uncle Sirius's wedding. Harry watched his godfather's expression become tighter as he kept looking around the guests. Uncle Remus was frowning deeply, and Aunt Walburga was glowering at her son for not being attentive to his bride, but when she tried to talk to her son, Sirius turned away, his shoulders tense.

The marriage ceremony was beautiful, but Harry's godfather didn't smile once.

 

***

Jonny stopped coming to Grimmauld Place.

Harry didn't _understand_. He missed his Uncle Jonny, he didn't understand why Jonny was no longer around, and he hated that no one ever told him anything.

"Oh, Harry," Uncle Remus said with a sad smile when Harry asked him why Jonny had stopped coming over. "It's not something you would understand, pup." He grimaced a little. "Even I don't entirely understand it. It's complicated, all right?"

"Aunt Walburga says Uncle Jonny was bad for Uncle Sirius," Harry said, frowning. "Is Jonny bad?"

Uncle Remus looked angry, for some reason. "No, Jonny isn't bad. Your aunt is wrong. But it's really complicated, kiddo."

Frowning, Harry nodded. He stopped asking about Uncle Jonny, but he still noticed things the grown-ups tried to hide from him.

He noticed the weird tension between his godfather and Aunt Walburga--their relationship seemed to actually become worse since Jonny had stopped visiting, not better.

He noticed that Uncle Sirius and Aunt Eveline barely talked, and when they did, it was about the weather or something written in the Prophet.

He noticed that Aunt Walburga didn't like Aunt Eveline much, either. She was perfectly civil to her daughter-in-law, but there was something unpleasant in her eyes when she looked at her.

He noticed that Uncle Sirius's breath smelled funny in the evenings.

He also noticed that Aunt Eveline's stomach started getting bigger.

When Harry asked about it, Uncle Sirius told him that they were expecting a child.

"You're going to be a big brother, Harry," Uncle Sirius said with a faint smile, raking his hand through Harry's hair.

Harry smiled. He would like a little brother very much. Maybe everyone would be happier once he was born.

 

***

 

His little brother was born two days after Harry's sixth birthday. He was very wrinkly and red.

"Is he going to stay so ugly?" Harry said, looking skeptically at the tiny creature in Uncle Sirius's arms.

Uncle Sirius chuckled distractedly, his attention on the healers that were still gathered around Aunt Eveline's bed.

Harry followed his gaze and then looked away. There was so much blood. Was it normal?

Turned out, it wasn't normal.

Aunt Eveline died a few hours after giving birth to her son. The healers couldn't explain it: they shrugged in bewilderment and said that sometimes it happened.

Harry...he felt like a bad boy for thinking it, but he was a little glad that she was gone. He'd never liked Aunt Eveline--she had been distant with him, and their home had become miserable since she had moved in--so he was a little glad she was gone. Aunt Walburga had once said that the Blacks deserved only the best and shouldn't feel guilty about wanting the best. Harry thought he understood now. He didn't feel sad about Aunt Eveline's death, because he couldn't remember the last time Uncle Sirius smiled with his eyes. Uncle Sirius deserved better. Harry wanted him to be happy like he used to be, and Uncle Sirius clearly wasn't going to be happy while he was married to Aunt Eveline. Harry was relieved that she was gone.

 _Maybe things will be back to normal now_ , Harry thought, a flicker of hope flaring inside him. _Please please please._

But the happiness Harry had hoped for didn't come.

Uncle Sirius named his son James Jonathan Black, which made Aunt Walburga absolutely furious.

Despite the closed door, Harry could hear them shouting at each other, so he left his room and padded downstairs to hear better. Harry had always been curious, and he _hated_ not knowing.

"True Blacks name their heirs after the stars, not after blood traitors! James is such a common name!"

"It's the name of my best friend," Sirius said, sounding exhausted but mulish. "Who was a very good man and my brother."

"Fine," Aunt Walburga gritted out. "You may give him the name James. But don't even think about naming our heir after _that_ man."

"Jonathan is a perfectly good name," Sirius snapped. "It also happens to be the name of my other best friend--the one I lost thanks to you."

"He mustn't have been much of a best friend if he wasn't willing to share you with your _wife_. I did, didn't I?"

"Maybe he simply cared for _me_ more than he cared about the Black heir."

"How dare you--"

"Yes, I dare," Sirius bit off, sounding fed up. "You got rid of my friend, you got me married to a good little Pureblood girl, and you got the next Black heir that you wanted so badly. That's it, I'm done doing what you want. I'll name _my_ son whatever _I_ want. I'm going to name him after my friends--friends that I lost--and I'm not interested in your opinion."

There was a terrible, strained silence. Harry frowned, wanting to step forward and ask them to stop fighting, but he was old enough to know that it would just make his godfather feel guilty.

"Very well," Aunt Walburga said at last. She sounded old, Harry thought. It was strange--he'd never thought of his aunt as old, because Aunt Walburga still looked quite young and beautiful.

Aunt Walburga scoffed. "But spare me your theatrics. 'Friend that I lost!' Do you think I don't know that you're going to run to Rosier at the first opportunity now that your wife is dead?"

Harry perked up. He hoped his aunt was right and his godfather would make up with Uncle Jonny. Harry missed his Uncle Jonny. He hadn't seen him in almost a year.

"Last I heard, Jon was abroad," Sirius said flatly.

Aunt Walburga snorted. "I don't hear a denial. By the way, I find it _curious_ that your wife died in childbirth, something that just doesn't happen anymore."

Just a few months ago, Harry wouldn't have understood what his aunt was hinting at, but this summer Aunt Walburga had started teaching him Pureblood customs and politics; she had insisted that the ability to read between the lines was essential for a wizard and had given him practical lessons.

Now Harry almost wished she hadn't, because he didn't like what she was implying.

"Just stop," his godfather said tightly. "I didn't kill my wife. I'm not going to lie and say that I never wanted her to disappear, but I didn't bloody kill her. I'm not a killer."

"Maybe that _friend_ of yours did," Walburga said scathingly. "After all, he already murdered his cousin for his title and fortune. Why wouldn't he kill your wife, too? His perverse fixation on you has always been sick and--"

"SHUT UP!" Sirius bellowed. "You know _nothing_. You don't know what the word friendship even means--"

"And you do?" Walburga said with a sharp laugh. "You don't _do_ healthy friendships, Sirius Orion. First James Potter, and now Jonathan Rosier. At least Rosier can blame his creature blood for his unhealthy fixation on you. What's _your_ excuse?"

There was silence.

Then there was the sound of the door slamming shut, and Harry realized that his godfather had left.

"If you're going to eavesdrop, you should be subtler about it, Harry."

Harry blushed and stepped forward.

His aunt was seated in the chair, her back very straight. Her eyes were dry, but there was something very unnatural about it, as if she spelled them dry.

"What did you just learn, boy?" she said.

Harry thought for a moment, unsure what she wanted him to say. "My little brother's name?" he said with an uncertain smile.

Her lips twisted. "At least you seem to have learned some diplomacy. But no, that wasn't what I meant. Try again."

"I don't know, Auntie," Harry said politely. He had learned several things, but he had a feeling Aunt Walburga wouldn't appreciate it if he said them.

"You should have learned that your godfather is irresponsible and ungrateful," Walburga said, her voice bitter and clipped. "When a man must force himself to do his duty and be faithful to his family, it's hardly better than unfaithfulness."

"Yes, Aunt Walburga," Harry said dutifully, having learned that it was always better to agree with his auntie even when he didn't.

Aunt Walburga stared at him. "You're a clever little boy. Sometimes I can't believe you're James Potter's spawn."

Harry didn't even blink at the implied insult of his father. He had learned to take Aunt Walburga's opinions with a grain of salt. Aunt Walburga's opinion of Uncle Jonny was even worse than her opinion of James Potter, and Harry liked Uncle Jonny very much.

"Thanks, Aunt Walburga," he said with a soft smile and left.

Only once he was in his room, Harry allowed himself to curl up with his hippogriff plush and cry.

His godfather and Aunt Walburga had always fought, but never like this. Harry had already lost his parents and Uncle Jonny, and now this...

He just wanted a happy family.

Was it too much to ask for?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! This interlude was for those of you asking about little Harry. He is going to become a more important character as he gets older, even though this fic will remain Sirius-centric. 
> 
> Thanks so much for your comments! I really appreciate them.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sirius's wife's funeral. 
> 
> Sirius has a very uncomfortable conversation with Remus, who tells him something he's been in denial about.

His wife's funeral was on a sunny Thursday in August.

Sirius stood tall, trying to ignore the stares and whispers among the large crowd gathered around the black coffin.

He didn't need to strain his hearing to know what they were gossiping about.

"Died in childbirth--that's unheard of!"

"At least she's done her duty before dying."

"Or perhaps she died because she's served her purpose." A snicker.

Sirius gritted his teeth, his hand tightening around his wand.

"Ignore them, Padfoot," Remus said by his side. With his werewolf hearing, Moony could likely hear the nasty gossip far better than Sirius could.

He wished he could ignore them, but part of him wondered if they were right.

He'd told his mother the truth--he didn't kill Eveline--but after giving it some thought, he wondered if he'd had a hand in his wife's death after all. He was the Lord of the Grimmauld Place. The dark magic of the house was inherently linked to Sirius and responded to his emotional state. It wasn't out of the realm of possibility that the family magic might have killed Eveline while she was weakened by childbirth, responding to his subconscious desire to be free.

The thought was sickening, but Sirius couldn't completely disregard it after his mother had pointed out how convenient Eveline's death was for him.

And it was convenient; he couldn't deny it.

He'd never had great love for his wife. She was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen, and Sirius was a little ashamed to admit that it had definitely influenced him when he chose her out of the "suitable" Pureblood ladies his grandfather and mother had kept pushing at him.

Initially, Sirius had been reluctant to look for wife, but as he approached his twenty-fifth birthday, Arcturus's occasional urging that he must marry turned into annoying nagging. It had been bloody unbearable. Walburga hadn't been much better--the closer Sirius got to Jon, the more fixated she'd become on the idea that Sirius must marry and sire the heir, as if she knew that a wife would drive a wedge between him and his best friend.

When Sirius had finally given in to their pressure, he had still been determined to choose a girl from a light Pureblood family. Someone he liked as a person, someone who would be good for Harry.

It hadn't quite worked out that way.

The choice had been made for him the moment Eveline had lifted to him her stunning blue eyes. Eveline belonged to a dark Sacred Twenty-Eight family, but her impeccable bloodline had been the last thing he'd chosen her for.

He'd wanted her.

But lust wasn't something he should have ever based a marriage on; Sirius had realized it too late. He hadn't had any affection for his wife--he had very little in common with her besides their mutual lust, which faded after a few months.

And it probably hadn't helped that Sirius had resented her for being the reason he had lost his best friend. Though, if he were thinking rationally, Sirius would have realized that it wasn't Eveline's fault.

If it was anyone's fault, it was his mother's, for doing everything to keep him occupied with wedding preparations and leave him little time to spend with Jonny. Perhaps the fact that Walburga didn't act possessively when it came to Eveline should have clued him in that she didn't consider her much of a threat for Sirius's affections.

And it was also Sirius's own fault for not realizing sooner that Jonny _detested_ Eveline. Sirius had always ribbed Jonny for his ridiculous possessiveness, but he hadn't actually taken it seriously until Jonny told him that it would be better if Sirius asked Remus to be his best man. Only then Sirius looked at Jonny--really _looked_ at him--and noticed how hard Jon's eyes became whenever he looked at Eveline.

As for Eveline, just like all other women, she had clearly been fascinated with Jonny. It had made Sirius jealous at the time, which he knew was ridiculous--Jonny couldn't help looking the way he looked and it wasn't as though he would ever seduce Sirius's girl. Besides, Eveline had looked a lot like Anastasia, just taller, and Jonny was unlikely to be attracted to his sister's lookalike.

And yet, despite knowing all of this, Sirius still hadn't liked it when Jonny and Eveline interacted, for reasons he couldn't explain.

He still couldn't explain it.

He also couldn't explain how quickly his attraction to Eveline had deteriorated into resentment and dislike after their marriage.

The frustrating part was, Sirius had had no one to confide in. Remus had gone to join a French werewolf pack a few months after Sirius's wedding, and Jonny...

Sirius forced himself to stop thinking about it and focus on the funeral. His wife was dead. It was neither the time nor the place to be thinking about all of this.

But dammit, he couldn't stop thinking and wondering where it had all gone wrong.

After the coffin was lowered into the ground and the funeral was over, Sirius steered Remus toward his study and offered him a glass of firewhiskey.

Remus accepted it with a frown before settling into the chair opposite Sirius's.

Moony looked older. It had been almost nine months since they'd last seen each other and Remus looked so much older. Although he was just twenty-six, the gray in his hair and the premature lines on his face made him seem far older than his age.

"How have you been?" Sirius said, feeling a twinge of guilt, not just for this past year, but for many years before that. He'd tried to stay in touch with Moony, inviting him for holidays and Harry's birthdays, but he still hadn't seen Remus as often as he probably should have. It was just...they had so little in common these days. Sirius didn't like that thought, but it was true nonetheless. They had very little in common besides their Hogwarts memories, and one could reminisce about those good old days only so much before having nothing to talk about. They weren't schoolboys anymore; they were men, with their own social circles and interests. Sirius spent his time between the Wizengamot and managing the Black estates and finances--with his grandfather growing older, Sirius had taken on most of Lord Black's duties as well as his own.

The truth was, he and Remus had almost nothing in common these days, and no matter how much Sirius had wanted to keep in touch, he now understood the difference between a childhood friendship and an adult friendship, and that one didn't always became the other. What drew people close and held their bonds of friendship together was a common experience. He and Remus didn't have it anymore, and their friendship still seemed stuck in their Hogwarts days while they both moved on with their lives.

He still loved Moony, of course, but they weren't all that close nowadays. It was probably natural that people grew apart as they got older, but it still saddened him.

It made Sirius wonder if his friendship with Prongs would have stayed as strong. He would like to say _yes, absolutely_ , but...the truth was, he wasn't sure. On one hand, James had been the heir of an old Pureblood family, too, so they had at least one thing in common besides Hogwarts. On the other hand, the Potters didn't have a Wizengamot seat and avoided the dark circles the Blacks moved in. James had always been wary of dark magic, while Sirius...he couldn't exactly call himself a light wizard anymore. But his friendship with James had always been stronger than his friendship with Remus, so Sirius was more confident that they would have stayed close friends. With James, there wouldn't have been the issue of their different social status. With James, Sirius wouldn't feel self-conscious in his expensive, finely-tailored robes while his friend was wearing shabby, second-hand clothes. 

Sirius knew better than to offer help--he knew how proud Remus was; he wouldn't even accept a job offer from him--but it still made Sirius uncomfortable and guilty for having so much money while his childhood friend was clearly struggling.

Merlin, he wished he could help Remus. He had even considered helping him anonymously, but he knew Remus would guess immediately who his benefactor was.

"I've been well," Remus replied with a soft smile, tearing him away from his thoughts. "I've met a wonderful woman in France."

Sirius straightened, smiling at Remus. "Really? About time! Come on, tell me about her."

Remus shook his head. "Maybe later. What did you want to talk about?"

Sirius's smile slipped.

He poured himself a glass of firewhiskey and took a sip before staring at its surface. "Have you seen him in the past year?"

Silence.

"Yes," Remus said at last. "Once."

Sirius bit his tongue to stop himself from barraging Remus with countless questions. 

"Is he...okay?" Sirius said, looking down at his desk. Although Jonny had always insisted that he didn't _need_ Sirius, he had always become handsier if he hadn't seen Sirius for a few weeks. Eleven months seemed unthinkable in comparison.

"He seemed fine," Remus said.

Sirius pursed his lips, feeling irrationally disappointed. Bloody hell, did he actually _want_ Jonny to suffer without him? It was a good thing Jonny was doing fine without him. It was. The whole imprinting thing had always annoyed Jon; it was a good thing if he had figured out how to deal with it.

"Did he talk about me?" Sirius said before he could stop himself.

Remus stared at him and then shook his head.

Sirius gulped down his firewhiskey, relishing the burn. He looked at the mountain of paperwork waiting for him on his desk and tried not to think about the times he'd talked Jonny into helping him deal with it.

The silence stretched.

"I've never asked your opinion on Eveline," Sirius said, finally asking the question he had wanted to ask for a while. "Did you think I was making a mistake?"

Remus didn't reply immediately.

"She seemed... fine. Proud and arrogant, but most people in your circles are."

Sirius winced a little, feeling a pang of longing for the time Remus would say _our_ instead of your.

"I just wasn't sure you were marrying her for the right reasons," Remus added.

Sirius pulled a face. "The old man was constantly nagging me, and my mother was obsessed with me siring the next Black heir--"

"That's not what I'm talking about it, Padfoot," Remus said, sounding hesitant.

Sirius peered at him. "Then what do you mean?"

Remus's expression became pinched. "Remember the time you were infatuated with Marlene McKinnon?"

Sirius frowned, absolutely confused now. What did that have to do with anything?

"Marlene was... She was basically the female version of James," Remus said, looking anywhere but at Sirius.

Sirius stared at him. His first urge was to laugh, but then... Then he thought of Marlene--of her hazel eyes and unruly dark hair, of her lopsided smile and lovely, familiar features--and felt his stomach clench.

"Are you implying that..."

"You tend to...transfer feelings, Padfoot," Remus said, still looking uncomfortable but sympathetic. "Look, I'm not saying you wanted James that way--I honestly don't think that--but your emotional attachment to James definitely played a role in your finding Marlene attractive."

Sirius barked out a laugh. "So what, you think I married Eveline because she looked like James, too? She looked nothing like him!"

Remus stared at him before shaking his head slowly. "Sometimes I can't believe how blind you can be. It's not James she looked like."

Sirius felt a twinge of something unpleasant, uncomfortably reminded of Pettigrew's words all those years ago.

_You never notice things that are inconvenient to you._

Sirius pursed his lips. "Are you implying she looked a bit like Jonny?"

"A bit?" Remus said, very dryly. "She could have passed for his female twin."

Sirius scowled at him, his face becoming warm. "I really don't like what you're implying, Moony."

Remus sighed. "Look, I'm not saying you were secretly lusting after Jonny--I know you're straight--but you can't deny there was...attachment there. You were very attached to him, you admired him, so you were drawn to Eveline, who looked just like Jonny but, unlike Jonny, had the right bits. All I'm saying is that you basically sublimated your emotional attraction to Jonny into a physical attraction to Eveline." Remus smiled crookedly. "It was obvious to anyone with eyes. Why do you think Jon despised Eveline so much?"

Sirius stomach clenched. "He knew?"

Remus gave him an incredulous look. "Jonathan Rosier is one of the most observant people I've ever met. It would have been hard for him to miss that you were basically marrying a female version of him. I think...I think that's what unsettled him about your marriage the most. He felt like he was being replaced."

Sirius scoffed. "Physical appearance aside, Eveline was nothing like Jonny. He has more personality in his little finger than she did in--" He cut himself off, realizing what he'd been doing: comparing, and finding Eveline lacking.

Had he been subconsciously doing it all this time?

Was that why he had started disliking Eveline?

The thought was highly unsettling.

"Look, Padfoot," Remus said with a grimace. "I'm not saying this to make you feel guilty. It's just the way you are. You've always been like that. Think of it this way: You love a very limited number of people, but you feel about them so strongly that those relationships define and influence your less important ones. I'm just glad that you managed to love Harry for being Harry and not some kind of extension of James."

Sirius glared at him. "You really thought that I would do that?"

Remus winced. "To be honest, I think if Harry were older, you would have absolutely seen him as a mini-James. But you raised him, and I'm glad to see that you don't treat him like that despite him being James's spitting image."

"Harry's my son in all but blood," Sirius said.

Remus said softly, "I know, Padfoot. I've seen how much he loves you. Frankly, I'm surprised he doesn't call you his dad."

Sirius smiled wistfully. "I think he wants to, and I don't exactly mind, but I don't know, Moony..." He ran a hand through his hair. It was too long again. He needed a haircut. "I feel like it would be disrespectful to James. He was Harry's dad. He lost his life trying to protect Harry. And does it matter what Harry calls me? It's just a word."

Remus looked thoughtful. "I think it _would_ matter to Harry if he could call you 'dad.' James is just a story to him, Sirius. You're the man who raised him. Now that you have your own son, he might start feeling like an outsider."

Sirius frowned. He hadn't thought of it that way. "I'll think about it..."

"You should," Remus said before smiling a little. "I've never thought you'd be a father of two before the age of thirty."

Sirius laughed. "Me neither. I don't feel like a father of two." He wasn't being entirely truthful. He wasn't the reckless adrenaline junkie he'd once been. Raising Harry and protecting him from people's invasive attention, the horcruxes dilemma, responsibility for the Black estates and Wizengamot seats--all of it had inevitably changed him. He felt like a different man. Older. More responsible. He felt like--perish the thought--a grown-up.

But around Remus, it felt like he had to play the familiar role of a carefree, irresponsible Padfoot, a role he'd long outgrown. Truth be told, he was a little afraid that they would feel like strangers to each other if he stopped behaving like the Padfoot Remus knew.

Merlin, he missed Jonny.

Shoving the thought away, Sirius grinned at Remus. "Now tell me about that sweet French girl that you mentioned. Is she a looker?"

Remus rolled his eyes.

 

***

 

Sirius closed the door to James Jonathan's room, leaving him in Kreacher's capable hands--the old elf practically worshipped the newborn, so Sirius was confident his son was safe. He walked the short distance to Harry's room to wish him good night.

Sirius frowned upon finding the bed empty.  
It took him a few moments to notice that the boy was seated on the window sill, his small arms wrapped around his knees.

"Harry?"

Harry hastily wiped his eyes with his sleeve.  
His frown deepening, Sirius walked over and put a hand on Harry's small shoulder. "Hey, kiddo, you okay?"

"I'm fine, Uncle Sirius," Harry said softly.

Sirius studied him, his mind going back to the conversation with Remus. He hesitated, unsure how to broach the subject and wondering if he should broach it at all when Harry was clearly upset. He didn't think Harry was upset because of Eveline's death--neither of them was fond of the other--and it made him wonder if Harry was upset because he had heard Sirius and his mother shouting at each other a few days ago. Even if he hadn't, it was unlikely Harry had missed that he and Walburga weren't talking; kids were sensitive to things like that.

"You going to tell me what's got you sad?" Sirius said, pulling the boy closer, so that his side was pressed against Sirius's chest.

Harry turned his head and muttered something into his chest.

"Can you say it louder, Harry?"

The boy sighed and said in a marginally louder voice, "Are you gonna marry again now?"

Sirius ran his fingers through the messy mop of hair. "Do you want me to remarry?"

Harry shook his head. "I didn't like Aunt Eveline," he admitted in a small voice. "I'm glad she's gone."

Something in Sirius's chest clenched. He once again cursed himself for thinking with his prick and choosing a wife completely unsuitable to be Harry's mother.

"No, it's unlikely I'll ever marry again," Sirius said, hugging the boy close."We don't need anyone else, right? You, me, and JJ are more than enough."

Harry was quiet against his chest. "What about Auntie? Don't you love her anymore?"

Sirius's felt his lips curl into something bitter. He wished he could stop loving her. It would have certainly made things easier. "She's my mother. I'll love her until the day I die. But look, mate, even people who love each other fight. It's normal. It doesn't mean they hate each other if they fight, okay?"

Harry fell quiet again. "So you don't hate Uncle Jonny?"

Sirius stared out the window unseeingly. "Of course I don't."

"Then can we get him back?" Harry said, barely audibly. "I miss him."

His throat uncomfortably thick, Sirius thought back to his last conversation with Jonny and his stomach twisted. "I'm sure he misses you too, Harry."

It was almost funny.

He remembered thinking five years ago that Jonathan Rosier wasn't James and would never be as close to him as James had been--that he would never be his best friend.

It was almost funny now.

Sirius had felt so damn guilty for getting a new best friend so soon after James died. He had kept telling himself that his friendship with James had been deeper, completely different from the one he had with Jonny.

The truth was... the truth was, if he were given a choice right now to have one of James or Jonny back, Sirius wasn't at all sure that he would choose James.

And it made him feel absolutely wretched.

That was why he was so hesitant about allowing Harry to call him 'dad:' Sirius already felt like he was betraying James by needing Jonny more; stealing James's son too would feel like an ultimate betrayal he wasn't ready for.

 _You're being selfish, Siri_ , his inner voice said in Jonny's voice. _Aren't the kid's needs more important than your guilt?_

Setting his jaw, Sirius tipped Harry's face up and looked into the green eyes that looked back at him trustingly. "You're six now, old enough to make the decision. Do you...do you want to call me your dad? You don't have to--I was just wondering."

Harry's eyes were wide and unblinking. "Really?" he said breathlessly.

Sirius smiled and kissed him on the forehead. "Of course, pup, but only if you want to."

"I do," Harry said quietly, his chin trembling as he beamed up at Sirius.

Sirius pulled him into a hug, his chest growing tight. He felt both happy and sad. _It should have been Prongs_.

"Then I'll be honored to call you my son, kiddo."

Harry's arms tightened around him.

Sirius closed his eyes, breathing in his child's familiar scent.

He felt that this was the right decision, but it did nothing to erase the terrible, guilty feeling in his gut.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jonathan Rosier comes back. 
> 
> Sirius finds that sometimes change isn't a good thing, and there are more important things than his pride.

JJ was four months old when Jonny came back to England.

Or rather, Sirius had heard that he was back from Lord Greengrass, a casual mention that made Sirius freeze and forget what they were talking about.

"No," he said belatedly. "I haven't seen him yet." _I had no bloody idea he was back._

Sirius's first urge was to apparate to Rosier Manor, but he forced himself to stop and think. If Jon was back but didn't even bother to tell him about it, it probably meant something.

It made Sirius think of their last conversation--of what Jonny had said--and a small knot of anxiety settled in the pit of his stomach.

 

***

 

Fifteen months earlier

 

 

"I'm leaving the country."

Sirius opened his mouth and closed it, frowning deeply. He'd come to Rosier Manor still upset and pissed off because of Jonny's no-show at his wedding, but he hadn't even been given the opportunity to "throw a fit," as Jonny would no doubt call it, because he found him packing.

"Where to? For how long?" Sirius said.

Jon shrugged, his back to Sirius as he flicked his wand casually to move clothes into his trunk. "For however long it takes."

"What are you talking about?" Sirius said, narrowing his eyes and stepping closer.

Jonny's shoulders tensed. "You know what I'm talking about, Sirius. I'm sick and tired of this."

"You don't have to go," Sirius said quickly, his heart beating faster. "You know it doesn't bother me."

"It bothers _me_ ," Jonny snapped, blue eyes flashing as he turned around. The very air in the room thickened with dark magic, the ancient house reacting to Lord Rosier's anger.

Goosebumps ran up Sirius's spine. "Jonny--"

"Don't you Jonny me," Jon bit off, glaring him down. "What are you even doing here? You should be home, with your wife. Now get out. I have an international portkey to catch."

"How long will you be gone for?" Sirius said hoarsely. "Harry will miss you."

Jonny's lips twisted. His eyes roamed over Sirius's face, and there was something both hungry and repulsed in his gaze. "I'm sure _Harry_ won't," he said flatly before looking away. "Biksey!"

 _Crack_.

"Master called for Biksey?"

"Escort Mr. Black to the Floo room. He's leaving."

Sirius stared at him. Just like that? His best mate was going abroad for an indefinite amount of time and he wasn't even going to get a goodbye hug?

"I won't even get a goodbye hug?" Sirius said, forcing out a crooked smile.

Jonny stared at him with a pinched expression before swearing under his breath and stepping forward.

Sirius closed his eyes as Jonny's arms wrapped around him tightly, the sensation very familiar after years of their friendship. He and Prongs had always been touchy-feely, but his and Jonny's friendship was a whole new level of touchy-feely. Men less secure in their sexuality would have likely been weirded out. But after years of this, Sirius found Jonny's touch more comforting than any other person's--his mother included. It grounded him.

It was going to be hard to adjust to lack of it in his life.

"I'll fix this, and then we'll be fine," Jonny said tightly into Sirius's neck.

Sirius frowned, resisting the urge to say that there was nothing to fix, that they were fine the way they were, but he knew he had no right. Jon was the one inconvenienced by the issue, not him. If Jonny wanted to find the solution for his imprinting problem, it was his choice and Sirius had no say in it.

"Okay," Sirius said, brushing his hand through Jonny's thick hair before patting him on his back. "But you'll owl me every week."

"I will."

Sirius didn't know yet that he was lying.

Jonny didn't write once.

 

 

***

 

Sirius waited two whole days before finally giving in and apparating to Rosier Manor.

Biksey showed him to the study.

Jonny was seated behind his desk, occupied by the mountain of paperwork.

He didn't lift his gaze when Sirius entered the room so Sirius took the opportunity to study him. He looked...good. Healthy and tanned, his muscles more defined as if he'd been doing manual labor while he was abroad.

When Jon finally lifted his gaze, the blue of his eyes seemed inhumanly bright in contrast with his tanned skin. They were unreadable as he stared at Sirius.

For a long moment, they just looked at each other.

"My condolences on the death of your wife," Jon murmured at last.

Sirius took a few steps forward, but when it became obvious that Jonny had no intention of hugging him--of touching him--he took the seat on the other side of the desk. He felt...wrong-footed, off-balance.

It made him think of Jonny's words before he left--that he wouldn't return until he got rid of his fixation on Sirius--and Sirius's insides tightened into an uncomfortable knot. He studied Jon intently, but the other man seemed absolutely relaxed, his expression calm and collected.

"So," Sirius said, forcing his voice to sound casual. "Where have you been?"

"Asia," Jon said.

"There are no owls in Asia?" Sirius sniped before he could stop himself.

Jon gave him an unreadable look. "I was living in the oldest incubi community in Tibet. They had next to no communication with the outside world."

Sirius pursed his lips. _It's not an excuse. You still met up with Remus somehow._

"So did they help you?" he said, his voice more clipped than he would have liked.

"They did," Jon said.

Sirius stared at him. He didn't know what he was feeling, but whatever this feeling in his chest was, it was a lot closer to disappointment than to happiness. Merlin, was he really as selfish as Wormtail had said? Had he _liked_ that Jon had needed him? It was messed up, bloody hell.

"Actually, they've also taught me an obscure locator spell that I believe could be very useful for you."

Sirius frowned, confused by the change of subject before boring his eyes into Jonny's face when he realized what his friend was referring to. "Horcruxes can't be found using locator spells. Voldemort was smarter than that."

Jon grabbed a piece of parchment and a quill and started writing. "It isn't a normal locator spell. It's a form of Old Magic that uses something's essence to find other things that have the same essence. You still have Slytherin's locket, right?"

Sirius nodded, his mind racing. "Would a horcrux's former vessel be enough? I used a bound dementor to destroy both horcxruxes, so there's nothing left of them."

"Dark magic like that always taints the object," Jonny said, still writing something on the piece of parchment. "The residual magic should be enough for the locator spell to work. It will not be precise, of course, but it will at least give us a general idea where they are and how many of them there are."

Sirius almost smiled at Jonny's use of _us_. It was good to know that Jon still thought of them as them.

"Although I still think that seven is the most likely number, the most magically stable, it's possible there are less than seven if the Dark Lord hadn't managed to create them all before dying." Jon stopped writing and lifted his gaze to Sirius. "A spell of this magnitude will require immense power. Strictly speaking, it isn't a spell but a ritual. A Dark ritual, so it's unlikely Dumbledore can pull it off even if he agreed to perform it."

Sirius's brows furrowed. "Can't we just use the Fortifying ritual to combine our magical strength for this ritual?"

A barely noticeable grimace crossed Jonny's face. "If you want to use the Fortifying ritual, you'll have to ask someone else. Your mother, perhaps."

Sirius narrowed his eyes. "Why? My magic has a much better compatibility with yours."

"I was...advised against letting my magic touch yours," Jon said and resumed writing. "Or I might start fixating on you again."

Sirius's lips thinned. He bit his tongue to stop himself from saying something he might regret. It was fine. He could ask his mother. He didn't fucking need Jonny to need him for them to be friends. It was fine. It was probably better this way.

"Here," Jon said, pushing the parchment toward Sirius. "I described the ritual and everything you will need for it."

Sirius took the parchment and skimmed its contents. Some of the components of the ritual made his stomach turn, others made him frown. "The scales of nāgas? Aren't they extinct?"

"I brought some scales from India," Jon said. "You'll have to tell me when you're ready to do the ritual. I can't participate, but I want to observe. That ritual... it's very unstable. Even a small mistake would be disastrous. Owl me when you're ready."

Refusing to take Jonny's words for the dismissal they clearly were, Sirius continued sitting in his chair until Jon finally lifted his gaze to him again.

"Harry misses you," Sirius said.

Jonny's eyes warmed a little. "I miss the kid, too. I'll try to make time to see him, but I have too much paperwork to catch up on right now."

It was another clear dismissal that Sirius chose to ignore. He just... He wasn't ready to go yet. Jonny might not need him anymore, but Sirius couldn't say the same about himself.

"I think I killed Eveline," he said, looking Jonny in the eye. It was a subject he hadn't been able to talk to Remus about. Remus would never understand.

Jonny's expression didn't change. He cocked his head slightly. "Wouldn't you know for sure if you really did?"

Sirius shook his head, running his hand through his hair. "Not directly. I think the house--the family magic--did it. Because it could sense that I wanted to be free."

Something flickered in Jonny's eyes. He looked away, his expression thoughtful. "Although a wizarding house's magic can obviously respond to its master's commands, I've never heard of it responding to his desires. It's really peculiar if it did. Are you sure she couldn't have died of natural causes?"

"She was weakened by childbirth, but she seemed mostly fine initially," Sirius said with a frown. "There was something unnatural about her death. The healers couldn't explain it."

"It still doesn't nessarily mean that it had anything to do with you."

"I know, but as my mother pointed out, her death was very convenient for me."

"Your mother," Jon murmured, looking pensive. "Interesting."

Sirius narrowed his eyes at him. "Surely you don't think..."

Jonny shrugged. "If I killed someone, the first thing I would do is accuse someone else of doing it, to divert attention from me. And your mother certainly had a motive."

Sirius let out a chuckle. It sounded painfully awkward even to his own ears. "What do you mean?"

Jonny raised his eyebrows. "You think I don't know how much your mother is obsessed with you? The Selwyn girl was just a broodmare for her. She got the heir she wanted so much. Why would she share you with your wife now?"

Sirius gave him a pinched look, his face a little warm. "If you're implying--"

"I'm not implying anything," Jonny said, holding his gaze. "I know it's not like that. But as someone who was as obsessed with you, trust me, her possessiveness is enough of a motive to kill the girl after she's served her purpose."

Ignoring the twinge of something at Jonny's use of past tense, Sirius cocked his head to the side, curious enough for the first time to ask, " _Did_ you kill your cousin?"

Jon let out a laugh. "It took you only five years to ask that question, Siri. This must be some kind of record."

Sirius peered at him. "Did you?"

Jonny's expression darkened. "He assaulted Anastasia," he said flatly.

Sirius just nodded, accepting it as a valid enough reason to kill Evan Rosier. That sick bastard had deserved nothing less anyway.

"So you really think it was my mother," Sirius said.

"Maybe." Jonny shrugged, returning his gaze to his paperwork.

Sirius stared at him, feeling...strange. Uninteresting. _Unimportant_. It was a completely foreign feeling for him in Jonathan Rosier's presence. He was used to having Jon's attentive, intense gaze on him whenever they were in the same room. This just felt wrong, bloody hell.

Not that he needed Jonny's attention or anything.

He just...

"I named my son James Jonathan Black," Sirius said.

Jonny lifted his gaze from his paperwork and gave him a long, weird look. "I imagine your mother was thrilled."

Sirius made a face, and they looked at each other and burst out laughing.

Deeply relieved that they could still laugh together, Sirius met Jonny's amused eyes and said earnestly, "I'm glad you're back."

The amusement in Jonny's gaze disappeared. He gave a clipped nod and looked back at his paperwork. The quill in his hand snapped. "You should go. I'm a little busy."

Sirius got to his feet, looked at Jonny for a moment, still kind of expecting a hug, which obviously wasn't coming, and then left, ignoring the feeling of wrongness.

He looked down at the parchment still clutched in his hand, and tried to feel excitement he was supposed to be feeling right now. This was _huge_. After destroying the two horcruxes, they'd been stuck for years. If this obscure ritual could help them locate the remaining horcruxes, it would take a huge weight off his shoulders.

Sirius should be excited.

He should be beyond excited.

But his excitement was drowned out by the unsettled, dissatisfied feeling in his gut.

 

***

  
The ritual wasn't the most complicated Dark ritual Sirius had ever encountered. In fact, it was refreshingly easy: all he had to do was to cast a few Dark spells on the locket and make--and drink--a potion. But the components the potion required were so rare and expensive that even with the Blacks' considerable resources, it took him a month to aqcuire all the necessary ingredients besides the nāga scales Jonny had owled him.

"Are you sure Rosier didn't make a mistake?" Walburga said, frowning at Jonny's notes. "This makes very little sense."

Sirius didn't look at her. Although they were on speaking terms again--they'd never been good at ignoring each other--their relationship was still rather strained. Sirius both wanted to make up with her and wanted to show her that he wasn't going to do what she wanted anymore. The two conflicting urges were driving him bonkers.

"I trust him," Sirius said and ignored her scoff.

"Dragon blood shouldn't work the way Rosier implies here," Walburga said. "Not when it's mixed with phoenix tears. It doesn't make any sense, Sirius."

"We'll find out soon enough which of you is right," Sirius said neutrally. But his tone might not be neutral enough, because she glared at him. He could feel her glare even without looking.

"You'll be required to drink that concoction. You do realize that if Rosier is wrong, this ritual will be extremely dangerous for you, right?"

Sirius pressed his lips together. Of course he realized that. He wasn't a bloody idiot. Some of these ingredients just didn't minx, normally.

"You shouldn't trust him so blindly," Walburga said. "What did he even do to deserve your trust? You should have never told Rosier about horcruxes, either. He was a Dark Lord sympathizer."

"You were his sympathizer too."

"Yes, but I'm your mother."

"He's my best friend," Sirius gritted out.

"Is he? Odd. He hasn't come here once since his return to England."

Sirius carefully settled the phoenix tears next to the other ingredients for the ritual. His fingers didn't shake despite the rage building in his chest. As usual, Walburga Black knew exactly where to strike to inflict maximum damage.

But before Sirius could say anything, there was the sound of footsteps and Kreacher and Jonny entered the room.

"Lord Rosier's here," Kreacher announced, rather redundantly.

Jon looked between Sirius and Walburga. It was unlikely that he missed the tension in the room, but he didn't comment on it.

Instead, he walked over to Walburga and kissed her fingers. "Ma'am. You don't look a day older since the last time I saw you."

Sirius almost rolled his eyes. Jonny was such a smooth-talker. Did he _have_ to look at Walburga from under his eyelashes as his mouth touched her knuckles? It was bloody disgusting. And his mother wasn't much better. Despite the fact that she utterly despised Rosier, her gaze lingered on his stupidly handsome face for a moment too long.

Sirius scowled and cleared his throat.

Jonny finally let go of Walburga's hand and looked at him. Something like amusement flickered across his face. "You just can't bear not being the center of attention, can you?" he murmured before shifting his gaze to the laid out ingredients. "Let's start."

Jonny didn't participate in either ritual, just observing calmly and commenting on their wand movements once in a while. The potion required for the locator ritual was incredibly hard to make: many of the ingredients had to be added at very precise times and with very specific methods, as Jonny kept reminding them.

His mother wasn't amused in the least. Perhaps it was her irritation with Jonny's presence, or perhaps the distance between her and Sirius lately was to blame, but they struggled to perform the Fortifying ritual to combine their magical stength. The link formed, but it wasn't strong.

Sirius frowned, trying to gauge how much power he'd gained. Not much, he concluded after a few moments.

But he didn't say anything, loath to admit it to Jonny. How much power did he need, anyway? He was a very strong wizard; surely a small boost to his magic was enough?

Turned out, it wasn't.

"You stupid idiot," Jonny hissed as Sirius doubled over, groaning in pain as the magical backlash from a failed ritual wreaked havoc on his body.

Sirius laughed weakly. "Stupid idiot is redundant, don't you think?"

"Shut up," Rosier said, glaring him down. "Get up. We'll have to try again--properly, without your foolish Gryffindor heroics."

Sirius dragged himself to his feet, his entire body protesting. He felt like he was a hundred-year-old, not twenty-seven.

"Release the Fortifying link," Jonny bit out. "It's clearly useless anyway."

Walburga made an indignant sound, but Sirius didn't look her way.

He stared at Jonny. "I thought you couldn't allow your magic to touch mine?"

Rosier's expression was dark. "I clearly need to. That could have _killed_ you, you imbecile. Break the link. Now.

Sirius broke the link binding his magic to his mother and immediately squeezed his eyes as the pain worsened. Merlin, it felt almost worse than a Cruciatus. Distantly, he was vaguely aware of Jon feeding him a few drops of his blood and Jon's voice murmuring the long incantation for the Fortifying ritual, but the pain was too damn distracting for him to focus on anything else.

And then magic--dark, familiar, _delicious_  magic--slammed into him and Sirius groaned, this time from pleasure.

He opened his eyes and focused his gaze on Jonny.

Jonny, who was flushed--and who was staring at Sirius hungrily, blue eyes burning with intensity.

"Sorry," Sirius murmured, not feeling particularly sorry, if he were honest.

Jonny glowered at him before shoving his face against Sirius's throat and shuddering. "Damn you."

"I'm sorry," Sirius said, running his greedy fingers through Jonny's hair.

"Shut up," Jonny gritted out, nuzzling into his neck. "You're a shit liar."

Sirius hugged him tighter.

Merlin, he missed this.

"If you two are quite done, we have a ritual to do before the priceless ingredients become worthless."

Walburga's scathing voice made Sirius flush and pull back a little. Jonny made a growling sound, his arms tightening around him.

"She's right, Jonny," Sirius said before murmuring into his friend's ear, "Later."

Jon gave a clipped nod and pulled back. It took him a few moments to compose himself enough to stop looking at Sirius. "Do you feel good enough to perform the ritual or do you want me to do it?"

"I feel fine," Sirius said. He felt more than just fine. He'd never felt better, stronger. The Fortifying ritual always worked, but its effectiveness entirely depended on wizards' magical compatibility. As proven by Jon's imprinting on him, they had a fantastic magical compatibility, their magic perfectly complementing each other.

Sirius forced him to stop fixating on their connection and drink the rest of the concoction that they'd prepared. It still tasted as vile, but it no longer made him feel like his body was being tortured from the inside.

Sirius still shuddered as he felt the magic of the ritual take hold of him again. But this time it was working: he could feel something in him reaching out and _looking_. It was the strangest feeling. He felt as though he was both in his body and outside of it. He was magic, he was the cold earth, he was the snow, he was the December wind howling in the mountains--and then a series of images flashed in his mind: the familiar majestic castle--peacocks in a fancy garden--a set of huge burnished bronze doors--a shabby little shack half-hidden among the trees--

Sirius groaned and felt his knees give out as the magic of the ritual left him in a rush.

"Four," he croaked out as soon as he could speak. "There are still four."

Walburga looked grim while Jonny just stared at him. "Where?"

Sirius frowned, trying to make sense of what he'd seen. "One is somewhere in Hogwarts or on the Hogwarts grounds."

Walburga scoffed. "Unbelievable. It's extremely foolish."

Jonny looked thoughtful. "I think it's rather smart. No one would look for it at Hogwarts, of all places. And the castle is huge, with many undiscovered secrets. People still haven't found Slytherin's Chamber of Secrets, even though the castle has been searched hundreds of times. If Riddle found it, there would be no safer place."

Walburga nodded reluctantly and looked at Sirius. "What else?"

"I think one is at Malfoy Manor," Sirius said, getting to his feet. He felt as weak as a newborn kneazle, but he tried not to show it.

Walburga's brows furrowed. "But we've searched it."

"We must have missed it," Sirius said, shrugging. "That place is as huge as Hogwarts."

"We'll have to search more thoroughly," Jonny said, stepping closer and brushing his thumb against Sirius's wrist. "What about the other two?"

Sirius leaned into his side. Fuck, he felt like face-planting into his bed and sleeping for a week. "One is in Gringotts," Sirius said with a sigh.

Jonny swore under his breath. Sirius could relate. Gringotts was impossible to break into. They also had no idea in which vault the horcrux was. Voldemort had so many followers.

"What about the final horcrux?" Walburga said.

Sirius frowned. He had no idea what to make of the shabby little shack. It was one place that seemed completely unlike the others, and one place he didn't recognize at all. He couldn't imagine how that shack could be connected to Voldemort.

"Kreacher!"

 _Crack_.

"Master summons Kreacher?"

"Bring me my pensieve," Sirius said. Maybe Jonny or Walburga would see something he had missed. If not, he would have to show it to Dumbledore.

Sirius grimaced a little at the thought, but he was willing to do it if needed. Although he and the Headmaster weren't on the best of terms, they still had the same goal, and sometimes there were more important things than pride.

His son was more important than his pride.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your comments! I always appreciate them!
> 
> Happy Holidays,  
> A


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There was something peculiar about them, Narcissa thought. They didn't stand closer than a pair of good friends did. Sirius’s arm around Rosier’s shoulders was casual and friendly, making it obvious that they were good mates. And yet… There was something about the way they looked at each other that made her a little uncomfortable, as though she were intruding.

 

 

 

Narcissa Black Malfoy wasn't a fool.

She knew many people thought that she was nothing more but a pretty face, but everyone who really knew her knew better. She was the sole reason the Malfoys had managed to walk away unscathed after the Dark Lord’s fall. She was the one who had bribed, threatened, and blackmailed Wizengamot members while her husband and her father-in-law had waited for their trials. She was the one who had made generous donations to the Prophet to ensure positive press coverage for the Malfoys.

So no, Narcissa Malfoy wasn't a fool. She was perfectly aware that Jonathan Rosier must be after something. He'd never paid her much attention beyond meaningless pleasantries; he must have an ulterior motive for dancing and flirting with her now.

It didn't make his attention any less thrilling.

Narcissa might be a dedicated wife and mother, and she might be quite fond of her husband, but she was still a woman. She was married, not dead. She was a young, healthy woman, and Jonathan Rosier was easily the most attractive man she'd ever met. Even though she was suspicious of his sudden interest in her, his attention was flattering. If nothing else, she was the object of envy of every woman at the ball as Lord Rosier spun her in his arms. This dance was rather delightfully scandalous. Narcissa could feel her father-in-law’s judgmental gaze on her, and part of her wondered if she should have declined Rosier’s invitation for such an intimate dance, but she rather enjoyed playing with fire, enjoyed pissing Abraxas off. She was a Black, after all. She was no meek girl, regardless of her prim appearance.

“You're a splendid dancer, Mrs. Malfoy,” Rosier murmured in his low voice, his warm breath brushing her ear and making her shiver.

Narcissa smiled, feeling rather conscious of his big hand on her lower back. “Narcissa,” she murmured, lifting her gaze. “You may call me Narcissa.”

He smiled at her. “You should call me Jonathan, then.”

She raised her eyebrows, feeling rather warm and trying to pretend as though she was completely immune to those blue eyes.  _You're a married woman, Cissy. Don't be an idiot. He's after something._

“Jonathan?” she said. “I've heard my cousin call you Jonny.”

Something shifted in Rosier's eyes. “He is the only one who does.”

“And that's probably why he does it,” Narcissa said with a laugh. “I'm well aware of my cousin’s contrary nature.” Privately, Narcissa regretted that Sirius couldn't be even more contrary and rebellious. She had been hoping that her Draco could become the Black heir, but it seemed that Sirius now took his responsibilities seriously and had no intention of rebelling against his family. Narcissa could console herself that Draco would still inherit the Malfoy fortune, which was as immense as the Blacks.’ Except wealth wasn't everything. The Blacks were more powerful politically than the Malfoys. Not to mention that the Blacks’ collection of dark heirlooms was rather unrivaled. It was such a pity, really. Her Draco would have made a wonderful Lord Black. But now the chances of it were nearly nonexistent, since Sirius had his own heir now. 

“Contrary nature,” Rosier repeated, his lips curling. “You could say that.”

Narcissa shot him a curious look. There was something different in Rosier's tone when he spoke about Sirius, but his handsome face was absolutely unreadable. It was rather unfair, Narcissa thought. Handsome men had no right to be rich, powerful, and delightfully mysterious. She was only a woman. A very curious woman.

She regarded Rosier for a few moments before deciding to be blunt. Sometimes straightforwardness was the best course of action. Besides, Narcissa was well aware that Abraxas would be by her side in a matter of minutes. Her father-in-law was…quite protective of her.

_Protective_? her inner voice said snidely. _Obsessed is a more appropriate term._

Pushing the thought away, Narcissa met Rosier's gaze steadily. “What do you want, Jonathan?”

Rosier eyed her for a short while, his gaze so penetrative that for a moment she wondered if she was using legilimency on her. “I know that your husband, or perhaps your father-in-law, is in possession of something the Dark Lord entrusted him with. I want it.”

Narcissa cocked her head to the side. “Why would I help you?”

His expression became calculating. “You do not have a Dark Mark,” he said after a moment. “You're also a Black. Blacks are generally too proud to serve anyone. Also, my sources say that you were upset when you found out that your husband and father-in-law were Death Eaters.”

Narcissa arched her eyebrows, hiding her discomfort. How did he know? “My husband and father-in-law were under Imperius.”

His lips twitched. “Of course they were. I didn't mean to imply that they weren't. After all, I did vote them innocent and convinced your cousin to do the same. I believe I was promised a favor in return. Now I just want you to find that object for me and I'll consider your debt paid.”

She frowned, her stomach clenching in discomfort.

“You're asking for a very big favor,” she said carefully. She did owe Rosier and she was aware she must be careful. They were dark wizards, and magical debts between dark wizards weren't to be taken lightly. There were rituals that Rosier could use to seek magical compensation if he felt she was refusing to pay her debt. 

He smiled slightly, even though the smile didn't touch his eyes. They were ice cold. “You asked me for a  big favor, too. Do you have any idea how hard it was to convince Sirius to vote for your husband’s freedom?”

Narcissa grimaced a little. She had a pretty good idea. After all, she had gone to Rosier only after failing to convince Sirius herself. Even appealing to Arcturus hadn't been enough. The old Lord Black had refused to get involved, saying that the Malfoys were paying for their foolishness, and that the decision was Sirius’s to make if Sirius decided to attend the trial. Narcissa was so glad that Rosier had managed to convince Sirius. It had been too close. Had Sirius voted differently, Lucius and Abraxas would likely be in Azkaban now instead of hosting this Yule ball.

“What is it exactly that you’re looking for?” she said.

“Truth be told, I'm not sure," he said, grimacing. "It could be a small black book or a ring with a black stone, but it could be something else entirely.”

Her brows furrowed. Was he serious?  “How am I supposed to find something without knowing what it is?”

“You’re a Black,” he said, looking unfazed. “Blacks have a very high sensitivity to dark magic. Look for something that feels very, very dark and very, very strange." He seemed to hesitate before adding, "Something that feels like it shouldn't exist.”

A shiver ran up Narcissa’s spine. The mere thought that there was such an object that had belonged to the Dark Lord in her own home was extremely unsettling. 

“What are you going to do with it if I find it?” she said, looking at him assessingly. Jonathan Rosier had never been a Death Eater, too proud—and cautious—to serve anyone. Just like her. She was perplexed by his sudden desire to get involved in such matters.

“ _When_ you find it, I'm going to destroy it,” he said. 

“Why?” she blurted out, knowing that it was unlikely she would get an honest answer but unable to suppress her curiosity.

Some emotion, something grim and self-loathing, flickered across his face. “To protect what is mine,” he said, looking her in the eye.

Slowly, she nodded. She could understand that.

“I will find it,” she said as the dance ended.

He smiled at her, a small, genuine smile that made it painfully obvious that all the charming smiles he'd given her before were fake. “Thank you, Narcissa,” he said, lifting her hand to his mouth and kissing her knuckles lightly, blue eyes holding her gaze.

Narcissa licked her lips, her mouth a little dry.

“Here you are!” a familiar voice said.

She blinked and stared at her cousin, who seemingly appeared out of nowhere.

Sirius slung an arm around Rosier's shoulders, a move that knocked her hand away from Rosier's mouth.

“Are you done flirting with my cousin?” Sirius said with a grin that wasn't quite friendly. “She's married, you cad.”

Rosier shot him a somewhat exasperated look. “Have you no manners at all?” 

Narcissa eyed them curiously. She'd known that they were close friends, of course, but it was the first time she’d had an opportunity to watch them interact with each other from such a short distance.

There was something peculiar about them. They didn't stand closer than a pair of good friends did. Sirius’s arm around Rosier’s shoulders was casual and friendly, making it obvious that they were good mates. And yet… There was something about the way they looked at each other that made her a little uncomfortable, as though she were intruding.

It was ridiculous. She wasn't intruding. She was in her own home.

“I need to talk to you,” Sirius said, looking at his friend. In fact, he’d barely even glanced at Narcissa so far. It annoyed her. She didn't think her cousin was _that_ rude, but apparently he was.

Rosier raised an eyebrow. “Now?”

“Yes,” Sirius said. Leaning to Rosier’s ear, he murmured something.

Rosier's gaze dropped, his eyelashes hiding his expression. He nodded, touching Sirius's wrist.

Weirdly, Sirius’s shoulders relaxed. He finally shot Narcissa a self-assured, infuriatingly teasing smile. “Your father-in-law wants you, Cissy.”

Narcissa felt her face become warm. “Pardon?”

He gave her an innocent look. “I said he wanted to _talk_ to you. Wasn't that what I said, Jonny?”

“Sure, Sirius,” Rosier said, his lips twitching.

Merlin, that man was unfairly attractive. _Both_ of them were, to be honest, but Narcissa had perfected the art of ignoring her cousin’s looks since their youth. She wasn't Bella; Narcissa knew better. Although relationships between cousins wasn't considered in poor taste among the Blacks, personally, Narcissa found incest rather distasteful. Therefore, she had always done her best to ignore Sirius’s attractiveness. But she still wasn't blind: standing side by side, her cousin and Lord Rosier made a startlingly handsome picture. And of course, they both knew it, the bastards. 

Shaking her head, Narcissa walked away from them. She did need to find Abraxas before that overbearing man could cause a scene. Sirius’s less than subtle teasing was more than enough. 

Narcissa pursed her lips, thinking of Rosier’s request. It was a request in name only; she didn't delude herself thinking that she could refuse to do what he was asking. Despite his charming, handsome exterior, Jonathan Rosier wasn't a nice man. He was manipulative, cunning, and ruthless. He'd killed his own cousin, after all, and Evan Rosier had been a very dangerous man. 

_To protect what is mine,_ Jonathan had said. 

Now she wondered. Who had he meant?

But it hardly mattered, did it? She was going to do what he was requesting. She had little choice.

The question was: how was she supposed to find something without knowing what it was? The Manor was huge, and there were hidden rooms that could only be accessed by someone of Malfoy blood. Lucius would never betray the Dark Lord. He foolishly believed—hoped—that he would return. Narcissa could only shake her head in exasperation. Sometimes she wondered how such an intelligent man could be such an idiot when it came to the Dark Lord. Did Lucius enjoy kneeling in front of the Dark Lord and being subjected to Cruciatus Curse over and over? She could never understand it. Perhaps it was her Black pride, but Narcissa couldn't imagine a more humiliating—and pointless—service. The Malfoys were magically powerful, rich, and influential. They didn't need a Lord to serve. If the Dark Lord were to return, he would bring nothing but problems for them. And yet Lucius didn't seem to understand that. No, she couldn't tell Lucius. She couldn't tell anyone. Jonathan Rosier was a dangerous man to cross.

Sighing, Narcissa looked across the ballroom at Abraxas.

Meeting his intent, sharp gaze, she straightened and smiled at her father-in-law.

Rosier was right: she was a Black. 

She would do what she must for her family.

 

***

 

Two weeks after the Malfoys’ Yule ball, Jonny owled Sirius. His letter just said, “Your cousin kept her word.”

Sirius Flooed to Rosier Manor straight away. A house-elf showed him to the basement.

Jonny was in what Sirius jokingly called his Dark Lair—it had all sorts of dark objects that would make even the most jaded dark wizard a little uneasy. Sometimes Sirius wondered why _he_ wasn't uneasy. He should be. While he used his share of dark magic, he wasn't as Dark as Jonny was. Jonny's love for dark magic should have unsettled him. Prongs would have likely been horrified by some of the things in this basement, but Sirius felt unbothered. He wondered what it said about him. Did it make him a terrible person that the knowledge that Jonny would never do _him_ harm was enough?

Pushing the uncomfortable thought away, Sirius focused his gaze on his best friend. Jonny was seated at the wooden desk, studying a small black book. There was a deep frown between his dark brows, his lips twisted.

“This thing is _muggle_ ,” Jon said without looking up--he always seemed to sense when Sirius was in the room. “Can you believe that a Dark Lord preaching Pureblood supremacy put a part of his soul into a muggle book?” 

Sirius rolled his eyes. “It looks like he's more open-minded than you are,” he said with a grin, slinging an arm around Jonny and looking at the book over Jonny's shoulder. He almost cringed at the familiar feel of a horcrux.  “So Cissy actually did it. I'm surprised.”

“I'm not. Your cousin is a smart witch.”

Sirius scoffed. “I guess your shameless flirting wasn't for nothing.”

Jonny chuckled, still studying the book. “My ‘flirting’ did nothing. Your cousin simply isn't an idiot.”

“Then why did you flirt with her?”

Jonny turned his head. 

“Because I wanted to,” he said, looking Sirius in the eye. “She's blonde, smart, and curvy: just my type. She looks like she'll be a fantastic shag.”

“You're disgusting,” Sirius said.

Jon smiled lazily. “Your jealousy is showing, Siri.”

Sirius felt his face become hot. But before he could say anything, Jonny murmured with a smirk, “Don't worry, you’re still the prettiest Black.”

Sirius rolled his eyes with a laugh. “I was so very worried,” he deadpanned. “But I think I have better cheekbones.”

Jonny looked at said cheekbones for a moment. “You do,” he said before turning back to the horcrux. “The book is empty. I'm kind of tempted to write in it, see what it will do.”

Frowning, Sirius grabbed the book. “Good thing I'm taking it away and you won't be tempted anymore.”

”Yeah, probably.” Jonny stood and stretched with a sigh before loosening the collar of his shirt. “Bloody hell, I'm knackered. You're welcome, by the way.”

Sirius eyed him with concern. Jon looked tired and stressed, his shoulders tense and his movements stiff. “Thanks, mate— you know I appreciate it.” He stepped closer and brushed his hand against Jonny's wrist. “You okay? You don't need…?”

Jonny shook his head with a rueful smile. “I don't need to cuddle you if that's what you're referring to. Take the book and go home.”

Sirius didn't move. “Tell me what's wrong,” he said. It came out more like a demand, which clearly wasn't appreciated by Jonny, judging by the flat look he received.

“Go home, Sirius,” Jon repeated tersely.

Sirius stared at him.

Then he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Jonny, hugging him close. He didn't even try to make it a manly, casual hug—they didn't really do those, anyway. 

Despite Jonny's claims that he didn't need a hug, he clearly didn't mind getting one: he sagged against Sirius before crushing him in his arms. 

“Out with it,” Sirius said, a knot of anxiety settling low in his stomach. “Tell me what's wrong. Come on, mate.”

Jonny let out a chuckle. “Nothing's wrong.  I just…” He pressed his nose against Sirius’s hair and inhaled deeply. “I'm just getting married.”

Sirius stared blankly at the bare wall opposite him. “Married? To whom?”

“I don't know yet,” Jonny said, running his fingers through the hair on Sirius’s nape. “But I'll have to choose a woman, and soon.”

“What's the rush? You are just twenty-nine,” Sirius said.

“I’ll be thirty next year,” Jonny said. “I need an heir, as my mother keeps reminding me. Rosiers tend to die young.”

Scowling, Sirius tightened his arms around him. “So what, you're going to just choose some Pureblood girl to breed?”

“Don't worry, I'll choose someone you'll like. Someone who'll be fine with…us being us.”

His lips thinning, Sirius pulled back. He felt oddly unsettled by the idea of some bird—Jonny's wife—knowing about…them. Their friendship might be unconventional, but it was just _theirs_. He didn't want some bird between them. 

“Right,” he said tightly.

Jonny stared at him for a moment. “Sometimes I almost wish you were a woman. Things would have been so much easier.”

Sirius could only glare at him, his face warm from what Jonny was implying. Jonny deserved to be bloody punched for the stupid shit he was saying.

He managed a scoff. “How do you fit through the door with the size of your ego? I wouldn't shag you even if I were a woman.”

Jonny grinned lazily, his eyes becoming heavy-lidded. “Liar,” he said. 

Sirius barked out a laugh. “And you call _me_ vain. Arrogant arse.”

“Just a realistic one,” Jon said with a crooked, mirthless smile. “You know we'd be shagging all the time if one of us were a woman.”

Sirius gave him a pinched look, deeply uncomfortable by the direction of this conversation, but unable to disagree. He was drawn to Jonny, emotionally, drawn to him so much that sometimes he didn't know what to do with himself, frustrated by the intensity of his attachment and needing a physical outlet for it. Had Jonny been a woman, sex would have been an obvious outlet, but since he wasn't, their relationship was just weird: too intense and touchy-feely for friendship but unable to be more because of their heterosexuality. Had Sirius been even a little bent, things might have been different, despite the stigma associated with gay relationships in Pureblood society. But he was straight. He couldn't imagine sleeping with a man, even one as handsome as Jonathan Rosier.

“Well, we’re both blokes, so the point is moot,” Sirius said with a chuckle that sounded incredibly awkward even to his own ears.

Jonny nodded, his gaze unreadable. He brushed his knuckles against Sirius’s throat, then his jawline. Sirius went rigid, his heart jumping into his throat. 

“I'm glad you're a man,” Jon said quietly. “It's bad enough already without sex in the mix.”

“Wow, thanks,” Sirius said wryly. “It's good to know what you think of our friendship.”

Jonny let out a humorless laugh. “I wasted a magical debt on something I wouldn't have given a shit about if it weren't for you,” he said, his tone a little bitter. “I'm bloody glad you aren't a woman. It's pathetic enough as it is.”

Sirius opened his mouth and closed it, unable to speak. 

Jonny sighed, turning his back to Sirius. “Take the book and go home, Siri.” 

Sirius did as he was told, his chest oddly tight.

Despite the horcrux in his hand, he felt as though he'd just lost something instead of gaining it. 

 


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that the rating of this story has been changed to Explicit. Although the majority of the story will remain PG-rated, this fic will have a few explicit chapters.
> 
> This chapter contains a graphic M/F/M scene (Jonathan Rosier/his wife/Sirius Black), though M/F/M isn't really the point.

 

 

Jonathan Rosier married Dalatea Zabini on September 19, 1987.

Walburga couldn't quite contain her smile all day.

Nothing could ruin her mood that day: nor her one-year-old grandson's incessant crying, nor Harry's making friends with the Longbottom boy. It was a wonderful day.

Granted, Sirius's behavior was dampening her mood a little.

Walburga frowned  as she watched her son across the ballroom.

Sirius was drinking methodically, pretty much ignoring all attempts to talk to him, his hostile gaze on the newlyweds as they danced together.

Walburga shook her head to herself before striding toward her son. "Cease this immediately," she said sharply. "People are starting to take notice."

Sirius just glowered at her and looked away.

Walburga's lips thinned. She glared at him and then glared at the man who was the main reason for the distance between her and her son. Walburga had never thought she could dislike any of Sirius's friends more than she had disliked James Potter, but Jonathan Rosier had proved her so wrong. She had also never thought Sirius could be as pathetically attached to any of his friends as he'd been to the Potter boy, but now she almost wished James Potter were alive. Because _this_ was so much worse.

"I'm glad Rosier finally settled down," she commented, watching her son carefully. He didn't react to her words, sipping his drink. Walburga smiled. "It's about time. His rakish behavior was unacceptable. If he weren't Lord Rosier, he wouldn't have been accepted in polite society anymore."

"What do you want, Mother?" Sirius said, looking her in the eye, his face cold and blank.

She suppressed her unease. These days, Sirius was so much better at hiding his emotions if he wanted to. She would have been pleased--his Gryffindor attitude had been unacceptable--except now some of his mannerisms reminded her uncomfortably of Rosier. It was highly unsettling.

"I want you to stop behaving like a loyal dog waiting for its owner's attention," she said scathingly. "It's disgusting. You're the Heir of the House of Black. Act like one. People are not blind."

An angry flush appeared on Sirius's cheeks, his jaw clenching. "I thought we already had this conversation. My friendship with Jon is none of your business, Mother."

"Friendship?" she said with a scoff. She knew she was being too emotional--they were in public, after all--but she couldn't help herself. It incensed her that her son didn't see that Rosier had him completely wrapped around his finger. Sirius displayed the same slavish devotion to Rosier that Bellatrix had displayed to Tom Riddle. It was beyond distasteful. Blacks should be slaves to _no one_ , not even their own emotions.

"Enough," Sirius bit out.

Walburga pursed her lips. "At least Rosier seems to have realized that he needed to change his ways. Dalatea Zabini is a very good choice." It was rumored that she had killed her first husband, and Walburga couldn't say she would be sad if she did the same to Rosier.

"I don't trust her," Sirius said, looking back at the new Lady Rosier. She was smiling at her husband, leaning into his personal space.

Walburga had to admit they made a striking couple. Dalatea was probably the most beautiful woman in the Wizarding Britain, and Rosier, for all his faults, was very easy on the eyes too.

"Why? I'm sure the rumor that she killed her first husband is nothing but malicious gossip. And even if it isn't, they certainly deserve each other." Walburga sneered. "Murderers belong together, after all."

Sirius didn't even deign it with a response, his eyes still on the couple. She wasn't sure he'd even heard her. Walburga glared at him. How dare he ignore _her_.

If Walburga were honest with herself, that was the main reason she absolutely loathed Jonathan Rosier: she hated that she was no longer the person her son's gaze gravitated to whenever they were in the same room. Or rather, she still was, but she stopped being that person the moment Rosier walked in. It absolutely incensed her, and it incensed her that it incensed her so much. She hated being one of those overbearing, possessive mothers whose attention wasn't wanted, but she couldn't stop being one, no matter how old her son was. He was a grown man now, closer to thirty than to twenty, but he would always be _hers_ first before anyone else's.

Except she was no longer sure that he was.

Walburga pursed her lips, watching her son watch Rosier. It was quite sickening, honestly. Sometimes she couldn't help but wonder about the nature of Sirius's attachment to Rosier. Because no matter what Sirius kept claiming, this wasn't friendship. This was something wrong, twisted, _unnatural_. It worried her. That was why she had pushed so hard for Sirius's marriage to the Selwyn girl--anything was better than this.

But it seemed a wife, a son, and year apart had changed nothing: Sirius was still as fixated on his so-called friend.

Walburga could only hope Rosier's marriage would finally put an end to that friendship.

She wanted her son back.

 

 

***

 

Sirius walked away from his mother, nursing his drink in a white-knuckled grip.

Merlin, he wanted to leave the wedding reception and get sloshed. But he had promised Jonny that he would stay until the very end, and Sirius Black kept his promises, dammit.

He wished he could pretend he didn't know why he felt so shitty, but Sirius tried not to lie to himself.

He was jealous.

It was bloody ridiculous--how lame was that to be jealous over one's best mate?--but the ugly feeling in the pit of his stomach could only be jealousy. It was beyond ridiculous. Rationally, Sirius knew nothing was changing for them. It was no different from Jonny sleeping with countless women over the years; it didn't affect their friendship, and yet... He felt sick with jealousy just thinking that now Jonny had a _life partner_ , someone constant, someone who carried his name and would carry his children. Someone who might become more important to Jonny than him, Sirius.

Bloody hell, this was fucked-up.

Sirius was perfectly aware that this kind of possessiveness was unhealthy, but he could do nothing about it. He was a Black. Blacks had never been good at suppressing negative emotions, and sadly, he was no exception. He felt so on edge that it felt like he was on the verge of exploding and hexing someone.

To make things worse, even though Sirius kept drinking, he remained frustratingly sober. He suspected Jonny had ordered his house-elves to keep casting mild sobering charms on the guests--Jon couldn't stand having drunk people in his home.

Merlin, the wedding reception seemed to drag on forever.

Finally, the last few remaining guests departed, and Sirius headed toward the door, relieved that it was finally over. He'd done his duty as a best friend and now he was free to get as roaring drunk as he wanted to.

"Where do you think you're going?" a familiar voice stopped him.

Sirius looked back at Jonny--and his wife--and smiled so widely it kind of hurt his cheeks. "I'm sure you lovebirds want to be alone." He put on his best leering look and winked.

Dalatea Zabini Rosier lifted her golden eyebrows and exchanged a look with her husband. "It isn't necessary, Sirius. We don't want you to leave."

Sirius stared at her. Was he understanding her right?

He looked at Jonny.

Jon's blue eyes glinted with something unfamiliar as he said, "Stay with us for the night."

Sirius's mouth went dry.

 

***

 

The thing was, Sirius wasn't a stranger to threesomes. He'd had one in his Hogwarts seventh year with the Patil twins, which he still remembered about fondly. And then there had been the time he wanted to get Remus laid and talked him into sharing the hot girl he'd pulled after their graduation.

The threesome with Remus had been...fine, but not all that different from regular sex. He and Remus had just worked together on making the girl come, and then she sucked Remus off while Sirius fucked her. It had been fun, but nothing special. Personally, the threesome with the Patil twins had been a lot more interesting for him.

This shouldn't have felt any different from the threesome with Remus.

Yet, somehow, it was. Sirius felt off-balance, uncomfortable in his own skin. Instead of focusing on the gorgeous naked woman between them, his gaze kept drifting to Jonny--because it always did. It was a habit he apparently couldn't break even while they were in bed with a beautiful woman.

Jonny leaned down and licked Dalatea's nipple. Meeting Sirius's gaze, he took it into his mouth.

Sirius stroked his erection absent-mindedly before latching onto her other nipple, licking and sucking it.

She moaned, burying her hands in their hair, pushing their heads against her breasts. "Merlin, yes... More. Harder."

Sirius sucked on the nipple harder, kneading her breast gently. The side of his face kept brushing against Jonny's as they sucked on her nipples, Jonny's stubble scratching his clean-shaven cheek. Sirius had never felt so uncomfortable and so turned on at the same time, hyper-aware of the naked man beside him even as his hands and his mouth touched that man's wife.

"Fuck, I wanna fuck you," Jonny muttered, licking between her breasts, his tongue catching on Sirius's fingers too.

Sirius shuddered, heat pulling in his gut. He wanted to see it. He wanted to see Jonny fuck. It was one thing, one part of Jonny's life that he hadn't been part of, and Sirius wanted to see it. He wanted it all. Jonny was _his_ , no matter who he put a ring on or put his prick in.

"Yeah, you should fuck her," Sirius said, straightening up and pulling Dalatea onto his lap. Sirius arranged her so that her back was to him and then spread her thighs wide for Jonny. "Go ahead."

"Yes, honey, do it," Dalatea said breathlessly, pliant in Sirius's arms.

Jonny stared at them with glazed eyes, looking between her pussy and Sirius's face over her shoulder. Finally, he moved between her legs and pressed the tip of his hard cock into her. She moaned, grinding her arse against Sirius's erection as Jonny pushed inside her.

Sirius gasped, his mouth falling open. Bloody hell. He could feel Jon's every thrust, and could feel Jon's magic radiating with hunger and want as he fucked hard into her.

He stared at them in fascination, watching Jonny's muscles strain and flex as he thrust powerfully into her. She was moaning and shaking in Sirius's arms, urging Jon to fuck her harder. And Jon did, a bead of sweat running down his forehead, onto his straight nose, to his parted lips.

Their eyes locked.

Acutely aware of Jonny's gaze, Sirius stroked her heaving breasts, her flat stomach, her clit, then lower, along her lips. His fingers brushed accidentally against Jonny's cock and Jonny groaned, low and inhuman, slamming hard inside her and pounding them both into the mattress.

His eyes burning with heat, Jonny leaned down, over Dalatea, folding her practically in half, to bury his face against Sirius's throat. A few hard thrusts and then he was coming, groaning out something unintelligible, something that might or might not be Sirius's name.

Sirius panted, a little weirded out but too turned on to freak out.

"Come on, your turn," Jonny said into his throat before rolling off and stretching out beside them. "Fuck her."

Sirius didn't need to be told twice. He pushed Dalatea under him and slammed inside her. She cried out, so damn wet around him, wet from arousal--and Jonny's come.

The realization that his cock was coated in Jonny's come should have grossed him out. Instead, a jolt of _something_ shot through Sirius, something dark and primitive, and Sirius started moving, fucking into Jonny's wife, wanting--needing--

"That's it, darling," Jonny murmured hoarsely, watching them with a hungry, possessive gaze. "Just a little more. Feels good, doesn't it?"

Sirius looked at him dazedly, at a loss, unsure who Jonny was talking to. But his orgasm was fast approaching, and he groaned, his hips pistoning into the tight heat, blue eyes the only thing that he could see, and then he was coming, a wave of pleasure wiping out his thoughts.

His vision went dark for a moment, and the next thing he knew, he was in Jonny's arms, Jonny's fingers carding through his hair gently.

He'd never felt better in his life.

"Fucking hell," Jonny said with a sigh, sounding a little dejected and pissed off.

Sirius shared the sentiment.

A cough.

Sirius flinched and turned his head.

Dalatea was studying them thoughtfully. "Well," she said with a wry smile, looking at Jonny. "This wasn't quite what I expected when you suggested to invite your best friend for a threesome."

Jonny made a face, a faint flush appearing on his cheekbones. His jaw clenched, but he said nothing.

"It's not what you think, Dalatea," Sirius said, untangling himself from Jonny and sitting up, his face uncomfortably warm. "We're not...we're not like that."

She raised an eyebrow and shrugged her bare shoulders. "Did I say that you were? I'm well aware that _my_ husband isn't...like that. Jon told me you were close, but I just didn't realize how close."

Something about the way she said 'my husband' rubbed Sirius wrong and it was a struggle to keep a neutral expression on his face.

He looked from her to Jonny, but his friend wouldn't quite meet his eyes, something pinched about his expression.

"I'll go," Sirius said, getting out of the bed. He got dressed as fast as possible, painfully aware of Dalatea and Jonny's gazes on him.

Jonny stood, too. Slipping a black robe over his bare shoulders, he followed Sirius out of the bedroom. "Siri," he said as the door shut after them.

Sirius stopped and turned around reluctantly.

Jonny stepped closer, his gaze searching. "We're fine, right?"

Sirius let out a laugh. "Of course we are. Why wouldn't we be fine?" _Except for the fact that you may or may not have said my name when you came._

Pushing the thought away, Sirius shrugged. "It was fun, mate. Dalatea is gorgeous, and it was--it was nice of you to share her."

Jonny gave a clipped nod, his eyes still boring into Sirius. "I know you don't like her much. I hoped it would help. I didn't want things to get weird."

Sirius shook his head, rubbing the back of his neck. "Shouldn't you go back to your wife?" His stomach churned at the word, and Sirius wasn't sure his voice was as neutral as it should have been.

They stared at each other for a moment before Jonny suddenly jerked him close and whispered harshly into his ear, "Don't be an idiot. You don't have a reason to be jealous. I'm more yours than I'll ever be hers."

Sirius breathed out, something in him relaxing.

"Just be careful, all right?" he said, running his fingers through Jonny's hair. "Maybe she really killed her first husband. Her son from the first marriage inherited everything he had."

Snorting, Jonny pulled back. "You shouldn't believe everything people say. Dalatea wouldn't hurt a fly."

Sirius frowned, unconvinced. "I don't trust her." _Not with you._ But he didn't know how to say it without making it sound as though he was just jealous. It wasn't just jealousy. Something about Dalatea Zabini made his skin crawl. The fact that she'd dyed her hair blonde just before she'd met Jonny was a strange coincidence. Of course it was possible that a woman famous for her dark beauty had just woken up one day and decided to be blonde, but considering that everyone knew Jonny liked blondes, it seemed likely that she had wanted to catch Jonny's attention--which wouldn't be a crime if the woman wasn't rumored to have killed her first husband for his fortune.

Sirius had told Jonny about his misgivings, but his friend had always dismissed them. It pissed Sirius off. He knew Jon could take care of himself, but there were ways to kill a wizard without attacking him openly. Many of the Rosier properties weren't entailed upon the male line, which would allow his widow to inherit them if something were to happen to Jonny.

Pursing his lips, Sirius searched in his pockets. "Here," he said, pulling out the ring he retrieved from the Black vault yesterday. "Consider it a wedding gift."

"What is this?" Jonny said, eyeing the ring curiously. It was a simple silver band, engraved with the Black family motto, _Toujours Pur_.

"It's an old Black heirloom," Sirius said. "It prevents any poison or blood curse from spreading, even the most undetectable ones. You would know if you were poisoned or cursed, but you wouldn't die from it."

Jonny rolled his eyes with a smile, shaking his head.

"Jon," Sirius said steadily. "Take it."

His smile disappearing, Jonny looked between the ring and Sirius's face before finally taking the ring and slipping it onto his ring finger. The _Toujours Pur_ flashed gold once before fading as the magic of the ring activated.

The ring fit Jonny perfectly.

Sirius's stomach did a funny flip-flop.

Jonny lifted his gaze from the ring, a strange expression on his face. "The Blacks' paranoia is legendary, but I didn't think you were prone to it."

"Better safe than sorry."

Jonny pulled Sirius into a one-armed hug and nuzzled into his temple a little. "Thanks, Siri," he said quietly. "I still think you're being paranoid, but if it will make you feel better...I'll wear it."

He still smelled of sex.

Licking his lips, Sirius cleared his throat a little and pulled away. "By the way, Dumbledore believes he knows where that shack might be. We're going there the day after tomorrow. Are you in?"

"Of course," Jonny said, sneering slightly. "As if I'd trust a light wizard to watch your back."

Sirius gave him an exasperated look. "And never mind that Dumbledore is probably the most powerful wizard alive."

Jon looked unimpressed. "Power isn't everything. He's too old and idealistic. He doesn't use enough dark magic to recognize it for what it is. I'm going with you."

"Whatever," Sirius said with a long-suffering sigh, but deep down, he was relieved. He didn't trust Dumbledore to watch his back, either. He would feel better knowing that Jonny would be looking out for any dark traps Dumbledore might miss.

 _Who are you trying to fool, Padfoot?_ his inner voice said in James's voice as Sirius headed to the Floo room. _You would feel better with Rosier by your side, full stop. You always do_.

Sirius grimaced at the thought and threw some Floo powder into the fireplace. "Grimmauld Place."

The house was dark and quiet.

His mother had likely already retired for the night, and his sons were long asleep by now. But Sirius knew they were there. He wasn't alone.

And yet the hollow feeling in his chest remained.

Merlin, he needed a drink.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Albus, Sirius, and Jonny go to the Gaunt shack. Some things are different, and some things are the same.
> 
> Sirius and Jonny's friendship seems a little off, and it's starting to freak Sirius out.

* * *

 

To say that Dumbledore wasn't happy when Sirius turned up at Hogsmeade with Jonny would be an understatement.

"You should tell people about horcruxes only if there's no other choice," Dumbledore said, piercing Sirius with the kind of disappointed look that would have made him feel like shit when Sirius had been young and stupid and thought that Dumbledore could do no wrong.

But Sirius was older now--and he liked to think less stupid-- so he didn't react. He met the old wizard's gaze steadily and said, "He's my friend and he's coming with us." While his tone wasn't rude, it was final.

Dumbledore's frown deepened, but he didn't argue.

The three of them grabbed the portkey--a bright pink sock--and when the world stopped spinning, Sirius was looking at a familiar shabby shack.

"Creepy," he murmured, his spine tingling from the sheer amount of dark magic around the place.

"Indeed," Dumbledore said, eyeing it grimly.

Jonny said nothing, but Sirius could feel his silent presence at his back. He remained quiet as Albus and Sirius worked on neutralizing the traps on the shack's door.

Sirius tried to focus on what he was doing and ignore the fact that things felt a little off between him and Jonny. Or maybe he was just imagining it. He and Jonny hadn't seen each other since...the other night.

Sirius flicked his gaze to Jon's hand, feeling a twinge of vicious satisfaction when he saw the Black ring on his finger.

Merlin, this was messed up.

"I think there are no more curses, and it is safe to go inside," Dumbledore said, tearing Sirius away from his increasingly weird thoughts.

Relieved at the distraction, Sirius focused his gaze on the shack. He opened his senses, trying to determine whether he could feel any other dark traps. But the shack stank of dark magic of the horcrux so strongly that it was hard to tell. The horcrux must have been inside it for years, maybe even decades, for the shack to be so drenched in its magic.

"Jon?" he said, without quite meeting his friend's eyes.

Jonny shrugged slightly. "It should be safe enough to go inside," he said, stepping closer to Sirius. "Go ahead, Professor. We'll follow you."

Dumbledore went ahead, but when Sirius took a step to follow him, he felt Jonny's hand on his wrist, stopping him. "Let him be the reckless Gryffindor," he murmured, slipping his fingers under Sirius's sleeve to touch his bare wrist.

Sirius licked his dry lips. "You're being a slimy Slytherin."

"Well, I am one," Jonny said, stroking the inside of his wrist. "We have a sense of self-preservation unlike you Gryffindors." He sighed, pressing his face against Sirius's nape and inhaling deeply. He made a displeased sound. "I don't like this cologne. Don't wear it."

Sirius rolled his eyes. "You don't like any cologne I wear."

"Precisely," Jonny said, wrapping an arm around Sirius's middle and pulling him back into his chest. He made a contented noise against Sirius's neck. "Damn, I needed this."

Sirius raised his eyebrows. "We saw each other just two days ago," he said with good humor, trying to pretend as though he wasn't leaning back into Jonny's touch. _And we had more skin-to-skin contact than I'm really comfortable with_ , he almost added, but didn't. Sirius wasn't really ready to talk about it. He still wasn't sure whether he hated the threesome or wanted to do it again, again, and again.

To say that he was a little confused lately was to say nothing.

But there was something Sirius was very curious about. "What did Dalatea say after I left?"

Jonny was quiet behind him. At last, he said, "She informed me that she didn't appreciate feeling like a third wheel. I had to go down on her for an hour to make up for it."

Sirius bit the inside of his cheek. "Must have been such a hardship," he said tonelessly, his hand gripping his wand harder.

"My jaw ached for hours."

"My heart bleeds for you."

Sirius didn't know why they were doing this--what this passive-aggressive exchange even meant--but he felt like punching or hexing someone.

Jonny's arm tightened around him. "I didn't want you to go," he muttered against Sirius's nape, his voice barely audible but full of resentment. "Wanted you there, in my bed. Wanted to sleep with you."

Sirius's eyes widened, his face heating up. "Jonny," he managed.

"Just to sleep," Jonny said quickly. "It's your bloody fault. The sheets smelled of you, and it got me all... you know. I wanted to touch you, but you weren't there. It was... frustrating."

"You had your wife in bed with you," Sirius said, staring unseeingly at the shack's door.

Jonny laughed harshly. "You know it's different."

Sirius did, but he didn't really feel like being understanding. It might be childish and mean, but he liked the thought of Jonny being _miserable_ without him. It wasn't a very friendly thought, but Sirius had long accepted that he and Jonathan Rosier weren't normal friends. Normal friends didn't touch like they did. Normal friends didn't feel so insanely possessive of each other.

They had never been normal friends, but things were becoming too weird even for them. It was starting to freak Sirius out.

"Come on, let's go inside," Sirius said, clearing his throat a little and freeing himself from Jonny's arms. Without looking at his best mate, he entered the shack.

And then stopped, staring aghast at Dumbledore, who was writhing on the floor in agony, clutching his hand--the hand with the ring that Lucretia had described. Bloody hell. What had Dumbledore been _thinking_?

Sirius quickly murmured the charm his mother usually used to take her rings off, levitating the ring off Dumbledore's blackening finger. Albus cried out, as if the pain only became worse.

Dropping the ring to the floor, Sirius took a step forward and leaned down to the old wizard--only to be yanked back.

"Don't touch him," Jonny said, gripping Sirius's shoulder firmly. "I recognize that curse. You can't help him, Sirius."

"But--" Sirius said, looking from Dumbledore's darkening hand to Jonny's impassive face.

"He's dying," Jonny said. "That curse doesn't have a counter-curse or a cure. Only death will stop it. If you touch him now, the curse might transfer to you if it hasn't bonded to his life core yet."

Sirius thought frantically. "If the curse can be transferred, can't we transfer it to an animal?"

Surprise flickered in Jonny's eyes. He cocked his head, contemplating it for a few moments before nodding. "It's worth a try."

Sirius conjured a mouse and levitated it carefully onto Dumbledore's blackening hand. The mouse made a heart-wrenching cry, blackening instantly and dying a few seconds later.

Jonny cast the Stasis Charm on Dumbledore's hand before casting several diagnostic charms. "Do you want the good news or the bad news first, Professor?"

Dumbledore focused his gaze on Jonny, his features still twisted in pain. "I have no preference," he said tightly.

"Thanks to Sirius's quick thinking, the curse has been stopped, but it's still done significant damage. I don't think it will kill you now, but it's likely that you'll never be able to use that hand. The nerve damage is extensive."

Dumbledore nodded, looking grim but unsurprised.

"One has to wonder why a powerful, wise wizard like you would put a horcrux on his finger," Jonny murmured, looking at Dumbledore speculatively.

Albus dropped his gaze, but not before Sirius noticed the shame and embarrassment in his eyes.

"He needs to go to St Mungo's," Sirius said, breaking the silence.

Dumbledore shook his head, getting to his feet slowly. "Severus can help just as well as any healer."

Sirius couldn't help but sneer. Even years later, he still felt a stab of betrayal and hurt when he was reminded of the fact that Dumbledore had bothered to protect Snape while he hadn't done anything for him.

"Do whatever you want," he said, sharper than he'd intended, levitating the horcrux into the warded container he'd brought for it.

"Could you give me the ring after you destroy the horcrux, my boy?"

"Why?" Sirius said, eyeing the headmaster suspiciously. Dumbledore hadn't taken an interest in any of the other horcrux receptacles.

Dumbledore seemed to hesitate before shaking his head. "No reason."

Sirius glared at him, unimpressed. So Dumbledore was still hiding something. Damn Albus and his secrets.

"I think I'm going to give it to my mother," Sirius said. "She likes Slytherin's old things, so she'll probably like something of his descendant's."

Albus pursed his lips, but didn't object. He flicked his wand and sent out his Patronus with a message, "Severus, please meet me at Hogsmeade, behind Three Broomsticks. I'm not feeling well." As the silver phoenix left, Albus smiled tiredly at Sirius. "Thanks for saving my life, Sirius. You have always been excellent at original thinking--I wouldn't have thought of such a simple solution. If that curse is what I think it is, I would have died if it weren't for you. I owe you a life debt now, my boy."

Sirius shook his head, a little annoyed that Dumbledore was acting as though Jonny wasn't even there. "You owe it to Jon, not me. If he weren't here, I wouldn't have known what to do."

Albus gave him a thin smile. "Life debts don't work like that, Sirius. But I suppose you are quite right: I owe Lord Rosier at least a magical debt." Nodding to Jonny, Albus pulled out a portkey and activated it.

Once the old wizard was gone, Jonny snorted. "It literally pained him to admit that he owes a Dark wizard anything."

"I'm a Dark wizard too," Sirius said.

Jonny shook his head. "Not like me. I think he suspects me of being the Dark Lord's supporter and just biding my time, waiting for the opportunity to backstab you."

Sirius grinned. "Are you?"

Jonny made a face. "I wish."

Sirius looked away, his stomach twisting. He hated being reminded that Jonny resented the strength of his attachment to him--that he'd tried to get rid of it for a year when he had been away from home.

"Do you..." he said, avoiding Jonny's gaze. "Do you think we would still be friends if you didn't imprint on me when we were kids?"

"Unlikely," Jonny said with a shrug. "I wouldn't have a reason to notice a Gryffindor brat two years younger than me."

Sirius gave a tight nod, feeling irrationally hurt. He knew it was bloody ridiculous. There was no damn reason to feel the way he was feeling.

"Are you _upset_?" Jonny said, forcing him to look at him. He chuckled incredulously when their eyes met. "Siri, you know I'm right. We had nothing in common. If I had the chance to get to know you--and you weren't so prejudiced against Slytherins-- we could have been friends, but you know..." Jonny shrugged. "What is the point of thinking of what ifs? It is what it is."

Sirius scowled, crossing his arms over his chest. "I just hate thinking that..." _That unlike you, I can't blame creature blood for being weird about you._

He didn't say it aloud, but Rosier must have read it on his face. He glowered at Sirius, his expression sour. "Look, even when I was away for a year and had the imprint blocked off, I still thought about you all the damn time. Are you happy now?"

Yes.

Feeling lighter, Sirius laughed a little, waggling his eyebrows with a smirk. "Are you saying you think about me all the time?"

Jonny just shot him a flat look and neither confirmed nor denied it. "By the way," he said instead. "I've finished studying the map."

Sirius looked at him curiously. Jonny expressed interest in the Marauder's Map when Sirius had told him about it, so a few weeks ago, Sirius went to Hogwarts to retrieve the map from Filch, which hadn't been exactly easy, but there was little Sirius wouldn't do for his best mate.

Jonny was a bit of a nerd when it came to interesting magical artifacts, especially if they were Dark--and the magic used for the Marauder's Map hadn't been exactly Light. No Light spells could track wizards with such accuracy and even reveal real names of polyjuiced wizards and animagi. Sirius had told the other Marauders that the Homonculous Charm was a charm he had overheard from Hogwarts professors, which was a load of bullshit, of course. If Hogwarts professors knew such a charm, the Marauders wouldn't have been able to do half of the stuff they got away with. Sirius had actually gotten that "charm" from an old, sinister-looking book in the Black library--as well as the other spells that they had used to create the map.

When Jonny had asked what spells the Marauders had used, Sirius told him the ones he remembered, but truth be told, the map was a bit of a freak accident: no matter how many times they tried, the Marauders hadn't been able to replicate it.

"Did you like it?" Sirius said. "It's a pretty neat piece of spellwork, isn't it?" He couldn't help but preen a little.

Jonny smiled slightly, looking somewhat fond and exasperated at the same time. But his smile quickly disappeared, replaced by a strange look. "It's more than just a neat piece of spellwork. Have you never thought that it was strange that Prongs, Padfoot, Moony and Wormtail had your personalities and could talk back to the map's user? A seemingly blank piece of parchment with someone's personality in it? Doesn't it remind you of something?"

Sirius gave him a blank look. "No?"

"Riddle's diary," Jonny said.

Sirius glared at him. "You said you didn't write in it!"

Jonny didn't look ashamed in the least. "I lied. I was curious and I wrote in it, a little. And Riddle wrote back, just like the Marauders in the map."

Sirius's stomach churned uncomfortably. He let out a laugh. "You're kidding, right? The Map is nothing like Riddle's diary! It's just an enchanted map, not a bloody horcrux. I would have remembered if we killed someone to create the Marauder's Map."

Jonny didn't laugh with him. "What is a horcrux, Sirius?" he said. "A piece of soul split off the main soul and tethered to an object. Souls can be split off accidentally without killing; it has been known to happen, which is what prompted Herpo the Foul to experiment with dark magic until he managed to do it on purpose. Horcruxes are the result of those experiments, an artificial, gruesome method of creating a soul shard, but it's possible to create one without intending to. I believe that's what happened here. You and your friends unknowingly split tiny bits of your souls when you wanted to infuse the map with your personalities."

Sirius could only stare at him. "You can't be serious. Are you saying there are four horcruxes in the map?"

Jonny shook his head. "Not horcruxes--tiny soul shards. They aren't malicious, and they aren't big enough to possess anyone, but they're aware enough. Not only they recognized me when I told them who I am, but they demanded to know how I got the map. They refused to let me use the map even when I gave them the correct password, so I had to tell them that you were the one who gave me the map and that I was your friend, which... prompted some interesting reactions."

Sirius was kind of curious about it, but Jonny continued, "My point is, they reacted like _persons_ , with their full memories up to their final year at Hogwarts. I don't know a single charm, Dark or Light, that can put a person's personality and full memories into a piece of parchment. Even magical paintings can't achieve that--a portrait generally just repeats the person's favorite phrases and imitates their general demeanor based on how the person appeared to the painter; they aren't really the same person as when they were alive. Of course, certain portraits have some important memories of the person, like the portraits of the Headmasters of Hogwarts and Lords of Noble Houses, but the portraits still aren't fully sentient. The personalities in the Marauder's Map definitely are. They even remember all the the stupid pranks you played on me at Hogwarts."

Sirius tried to digest that information. He'd never paid much attention to the hidden part of the map that they infused with their personalities. Sometimes he and Jamie laughed at Padfoot and Prongs's jokes, feeling smug that they had done such a believable charm work on the map.

Fucking hell, did that mean...

"Are you saying it's possible to bring James back?" Sirius croaked out, his mind racing.

Jonny shook his head with a grimace. "Don't even think about it. It's a very tiny piece of soul, not a horcrux. For all intents and purposes, James Potter is dead. If there's an afterlife, he's already there. This piece of soul is too small to tether his soul to Earth."

Sirius studied him carefully. "Are you saying that if I died, you wouldn't be able to use the soul shard in the map to bring me back?"

Jonny hesitated and it was all the answer Sirius needed.

"You can do it," Sirius said, his heart beating faster.

"I'm flattered that you think I can do the impossible, but I'm not a miracle worker, Sirius."

Sirius pursed his lips. He wasn't sure he believed Jonny.

Stepping forward, he put a hand on Rosier's unshaven cheek. "Please?" he said, looking into those unreadable blue eyes with his best puppy eyes.

A muscle flexed in Jonny's jaw. "I should fucking wring your neck," he said quietly. "You play me like a fiddle, and you know it."

Sirius flushed. He opened his mouth and closed it without speaking. He started pulling his hand away, but Jonny grabbed it and gripped it hard, his eyes like ice. "If I do it, what's in it for me?"

Sirius swallowed, feeling unsurprised but a little unsettled. He'd known that Jonny was a Slytherin and would never do anything out of the goodness of his heart if it didn't benefit him or his. Jonny helped Sirius with horcruxes because he was fond of Harry and because Voldemort's return would threaten Sirius's safety. But resurrecting James Potter obviously wasn't something Jonathan Rosier would ever want to do.

"Anything," Sirius said.

Jonny sneered, radiating cold fury. "Anything? You would do _anything_ for the chance to have your best friend back? How positively _Gryffindor_ of you."

Sirius frowned, studying him intently. "You won't stop being my best friend even if I had James back. I can have two best friends, you know."

Jonny gave him an irritated look and averted his gaze. "I'll have to think about it," he said at last, his voice clipped. "Necromancy isn't a field I have much experience in, and there isn't exactly a handbook on how to resurrect wizards using their soul shard. I'm sure you don't want Potter to be resurrected as some kind of inferius."

Sirius pulled a face. He definitely didn't want that. He probably shouldn't want Prongs back at all. He knew that it was selfish, and kind of crazy--Dumbledore probably wouldn't approve if he knew--but the mere idea of having Prongs back made him ache with longing. Although Jonny was his best friend, he still didn't occupy the hole in his heart that Prongs's death had left. His friendship with Jonny didn't fit in it, for some reason, completely different--messy, needy, and complicated--so unlike his friendship with Prongs, which had been easy and pure.

"Look, if it isn't possible, you don't have to do it, especially if it's too dangerous for you," Sirius said. Dark Arts often required a price. Sirius wanted James back, but not that badly.

Rosier snorted. "Don't worry, I'm definitely not sacrificing anything for your precious James."

Sirius gave him a pinched look. He didn't understand the strange animosity Jonny displayed toward James; he was perfectly amicable toward Remus.

"You don't even know James," Sirius said. "I'm sure you'll like him if you get to know him." He was sure of no such thing--Jonny and James were too different--but they would cross that bridge when they came to it.

If they came to it.

Jonny grimaced and said shortly, "I'll look into it, but no promises." He turned toward the door, his shoulders tense. "I'll owl you."

"Mate."

"What?" Jonny said flatly, without turning around.

Sirius licked his lips. "You do know that it doesn't mean you aren't enough for me, right?"

Jonny said nothing.

Sirius's stomach dropped. He grabbed Jonny's shoulder and said hoarsely, "You're my favorite person. _You_ , no one else."

"Then what do you need Potter for?" Jonny bit off.

"Because I miss him. He was my brother."

"And I'm not?"

Sirius frowned. He'd never thought of Jonny as a _brother_ , no matter how close they were. Prongs had been his brother--he had seen Sirius barfing, farting, licking his own balls as Padfoot, and being generally disgusting, and it was fine. He couldn't imagine behaving like that around Jonny. Even thinking about it made Sirius feel kind of mortified. He always tried to look his best around Jonny, because Jonathan Rosier always looked so bloody perfect and aristocratic without even trying.

"Um, not really," Sirius said before frowning again. "Do you see me as a brother?" He wasn't sure whether he wanted Jonny to say yes or no.

"Um, not really," Jonny said in a mocking voice.

"Arse," Sirius said with a laugh, shoving him away.

To his relief, Jonny was smiling too as he turned around. "I'll owl you," he said, his tone significantly less stiff than before. "Go home."

Sirius was still smiling as he disapparated away, clutching the container with the horcrux against his chest.

"Daddy's home!" Harry shouted, running toward Sirius with a huge grin on his face.

Sirius kind of froze.

Fucking hell. _Harry_. If James was resurrected, then his son would no longer be his son--he would be James's again.

"What is it, kiddo?" Sirius managed, putting the container on the shelf out of Harry's reach.

Harry beamed as him proudly. "JJ took his first steps!"

Sirius grinned. "Did he?" They all had been a little worried, because JJ was almost a year and two months old and still hadn't started walking.

Harry nodded, and Sirius leaned down to hoist him onto his shoulders, causing the boy to giggle. "Let's go see it, then! Where's he?"

"In his room, Dad! He still can't go too far!"

Grinning, Sirius carried Harry toward his younger son's room, trying to ignore the uncomfortable feeling in his gut. It was fucking stupid. _Dad_ was just a word. Jamie had died too young. He deserved to live. He deserved to get to know his son, to see him grow, learn, and be happy.

Not to mention that his concern was premature: Jonny most likely wouldn't be able to do it. If resurrecting someone were easy, one of Voldemort's followers would have already done that.

But _if_ Jonny managed it... It still wasn't going to change anything. Harry would still love Sirius. Family was more than blood ties; his friendship with Prongs was proof of that. Harry could have two dads just like Sirius could have two best friends.

 _Can you?_ a voice said at the back of his mind. _You're already fighting with Jonny over this._

Sirius frowned. He found himself thinking of Jonny's words.

_I should fucking wring your neck. You play me like a fiddle, and you know it._

Did he really behave that way? The thought was highly unsettling--and kind of amusing, because Jonny couldn't be more wrong. Sirius was the one who was completely wrapped around Jonny's finger.

He was the needy one.

It was bloody embarrassing to admit even in his own head, but Sirius knew it was true. He wasn't even sure that he would stop being friends with Jonny if Jonny _killed_ someone in front of him. Jonathan Rosier might be one of the Darkest wizards in the country, but he still folded like a cheap chair if Sirius gave him puppy eyes--and it was the only thing that mattered to Sirius. It made Sirius feel like a terrible, selfish git, but it was true nonetheless, no matter how messed up it was.

And it scared him.

That was partly why he needed Prongs back: sometimes Sirius felt like he was _drowning_ in Jonny, his sense of right and wrong completely skewed where Jonathan Rosier was concerned.

He needed help figuring out what the fuck was wrong with him.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Walburga confronts Rosier.
> 
> Jonny does something that knocks Sirius off-balance.

* * *

Walburga looked down at the elf and bit out, "Show me to your master."

The house elf flopped its ears before bowing and leading her toward the room on the first floor, a spacious, immaculate office. Walburga couldn't help but approve--her son's office was a mess.

"Mrs. Black to see the Master," the creature announced before disapparating.

Jonathan Rosier lifted his eyes from the book he was reading. "Ma'am," he said without bothering to stand up. If he was surprised to see her, his face didn't show it. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Walburga pressed her lips together and sat down in the opposite chair, somewhat insulted by his lack of manners but unsurprised. They were not on good terms. When they were in public, Rosier was still unfailingly charming and polite, but it made sense that he would be less than amicable when they were alone. Jonathan Rosier wasn't a fool. He was likely perfectly aware that she'd been trying to create a rift between him and Sirius for years. She wouldn't call them enemies--that would be too melodramatic--but they very much disliked each other.

"Do you really intend to resurrect James Potter?" she said. She saw little point in small talk.

Rosier cocked his head slightly. "Sirius told you that?"

She glared at him, incensed. He didn't have to sound so surprised. She and Sirius might be at odds more often than not, but she was still Sirius's mother. She knew him better than anyone. "Yes," she lied. Sirius hadn't bothered to tell her that; she had overheard him fire-calling Lupin--arguing with him about it.

" _Are you out of your mind, Padfoot? Let the dead be dead! James is with Lily, he's at peace!"_

_"He has a son!"_

_"Who already has a father! Let's be honest, Padfoot--you aren't doing this for Harry! You're just being selfish and reckless--this is crazy! I can't believe you're dragging Jon into this! I can't believe he agreed to do it."_

_"He said he'd look into it," Sirius said, sounding uncomfortable._

_"I'll fire-call Jon and tell him what I think of this madness."_

Walburga didn't know whether Lupin had fire-called Rosier or not. It didn't matter. She doubted some half-blood filth's opinion would sway Rosier one way or the other.

"I'm here to tell you not to do it," she said. "James Potter was a foolish Gryffindor. Sirius idealizes his friendship with Potter because he's looking back at it through nostalgia-tinted glasses. If you resurrect Potter, it will lead to nothing but disappointment and bitterness when Sirius realizes that his memories don't stand up to present-day reality."

Rosier stared at her, his expression inscrutable.

At last, he said mildly, "Do you take me for a gullible fool, ma'am?"

It was a struggle to keep her face blank. "Pardon?"

Rosier heaved a sigh, sagging back in his chair. "If you truly didn't want me to resurrect James Potter, you wouldn't tell me that. We're hardly friends. I have no reason to do as you say. Reverse psychology is a trick your son uses quite often. I usually let him get away with it, but you are not Sirius."

She said nothing.

"The question is," he said quietly. "Why do you want James Potter back? I was led to believe you despised him."

Walburga pursed her lips.

Rosier smiled crookedly. "Are you just choosing the lesser evil?"

Walburga glared at him, irritated that he could read her so well.

"Are you going to do it or not?" she said at last, unable to suppress her curiosity. She had researched it, and she wasn't sure resurrecting Potter was even possible. But if anyone could accomplish such a thing, it would be Rosier. He was one of the Darkest wizards she'd met in her life, his magical aura as delicious as it was disquieting. He uncomfortably reminded Walburga of a certain wizard she'd known in her youth--another devastatingly handsome, charming wizard with cold eyes who had dark magic dancing at his fingertips, too. The major difference was, Tom Riddle didn't get attached. He had never let anyone close, never cared about anyone, wasn't even capable of it, as far as Walburga could tell. Rosier was different in that regard. She almost wished he wasn't.

He gave a half-shrug. "I haven't decided yet." His gaze sharpened, his blue eyes turning icy. "But even if I do it, you're delusional if you think James Potter would change anything. Sirius is _mine_."

Goosebumps ran up her spine, a knot of unease settling low in her stomach. There was so much force in that one word that it sounded completely different from Rosier's other words. That single word had held so much feeling, ugly and fierce, that it was...

It was disturbing.

"No, he isn't," Walburga said, standing up. "Sirius Orion belongs to his family. You are not his family." She sneered. "Who are you to him, Rosier? Just a friend, no one important. If something were to happen to Sirius, you wouldn't even be notified of it, because you are _no one_ to him. He isn't yours, and he will never be."

Something shifted in his eyes. "You know where the door is, ma'am."

Turning around, Walburga left, telling herself that she'd had the last word. She was sure that she'd hit the nerve, but had she accomplished anything?

Had she _won_?

Or had she just made a mistake by making Rosier realize that he had no claim on Sirius?

 

 

***

 

 

When Jonny finally owled him, Sirius Flooed to Rosier Manor immediately, excitement and anxiety humming under his skin.

But as soon as he entered the basement, Jonny said,

"I can't do it."

Sirius stared at him. "What--what do you mean you can't do it?"

Jonny looked at him steadily. "Precisely what I said. I can't do it."

"You said that you could."

Jonny gave him a flat look, getting to his feet. "I never said that. You're the one who assumed that I could. I told you that it was impossible."

"Bollocks," Sirius said, striding over. "I saw your hesitation when I asked you if you could resurrect me using the soul shard. You just don't want to do it because it's James!"

They glared at each other from a few inches away.

"You know what?" Jonny said, something mean and hard in his eyes. "You're right. I looked into it, and theoretically, I could do it. But you know what ingredients such a ritual would require? A newborn's heart. Are you willing to carve the heart out of some infant for your precious childhood friend, Sirius? Because I don't really feel like it."

Sirius swallowed. He couldn't say anything.

Jonny smiled humorlessly and added, "Not for Potter, at least."

Sirius's stomach clenched from what Jonny was implying--and the fucked up part was, he wasn't sure it was entirely from horror. Merlin, they both were sick. They needed help.

"Am I supposed to feel touched?" he managed. "And do you think I'm that stupid to believe that you would need a newborn's heart to resurrect James? You lied to me before."

"When did I lie to you?"

"About Riddle's diary. You said you didn't write in it."

"I implied it. You drew your own conclusions. It's not the same as lying."

Sirius scoffed. "Right."

Jonny shrugged a little. "Why would I lie now?"

Sirius let out an incredulous laugh. "Seriously? You know why."

Jonny gave him a cold look. "No, I don't. Please enlighten me."

Sirius glared at him, unable to believe Jonny was actually forcing him to say it aloud. "Because you're jealous," he said, looking Rosier in the eye. "You're _afraid_ of Prongs's return, afraid he'd convince me that you're a bad influence, afraid that he'll turn me away from you."

Jonny's eyes flashed. "Afraid?" he said, his voice dangerously soft. "Of James Potter? Why would I be afraid of him when we both know who you belong to?"

Sirius licked his dry lips, his pulse quickening. "I don't--don't _belong_ to you, you arrogant prick."

Jonny's hand wrapped around Sirius's neck, his thumb stroking Sirius's Adam's apple. "Liar. You wouldn't even look at James Potter if he were in this room right now."

Sirius glowered at him, hating that he couldn't deny it. He wasn't good at looking at other people when Jonny was so close to him, his eyes going back to Rosier like he was a magnet. "Shut up."

"It's adorable that you're still clinging to James Potter and everything he represented, but Potter wouldn't even recognize you, Sirius. Look at you." Rosier's hand moved down from Sirius's throat, to stroke over the fine fabric of Sirius's dark green robes. "You look like a Pureblood lord. Your clothes, your bearing, your attitude--you always stood apart from your little Gryffindor gang, but now it's even more obvious. You're a Dark wizard now. Potter would feel uncomfortable around you, and you know the funniest part? You would feel uncomfortable, too."

"I wouldn't," Sirius grated out, watching Jonny's hand stroke the fabric of his robes, the gesture absent-minded but casually possessive.

"You would," Jonny said, meeting his gaze. "You and Potter were close friends as boys, but the man you've become has different needs. Potter can no longer give you what you need."

"Let me guess... you can?" Sirius said with a laugh.

Jonny didn't laugh. He let his hand splay over Sirius's chest. Sirius shivered at the touch, now regretting that he wasn't wearing anything under his robes.

"Did your heart beat this fast when Potter touched you, Siri?"

Sirius scoffed, his face warm. "James never groped me like you do." He couldn't imagine Prongs's hand on his chest, playing with his _nipple_ absent-mindedly, the way Jonny's was doing. "Stop that," he managed.

Jonny looked down. He went still upon seeing his thumb on Sirius's hard nipple, which was visible through the fabric of Sirius's thin robes. He just stared for a moment before lifting his gaze to Sirius's. "Are you saying that this is making you uncomfortable?"

Sirius licked his dry lips. He wasn't _uncomfortable_ , per se, but this was definitely more than a little weird. "No, but--"

"You would never let any other man touch you like this, but when it's me, it's okay. You know why?"

Sirius rolled his eyes. "Because I belong to you?"

Jonny yanked him close and squeezed him tightly. "Yes," he said viciously. "Potter can fucking rot in his grave for all I care. I'm not giving you back to him."

"Don't talk like that about him," Sirius said, trying to muster up the indignation, but his eyes kept slipping shut, his body going warm and boneless from Jonny's proximity. Jonny gave the best hugs even when he was being a git. "He was my best friend."

Jonny suddenly sank his teeth into his neck and _sucked_. A noise tore out of Sirius's throat. He shoved Jonny away. "What the hell, mate?" he managed, his hand flying to touch his neck. Had Jonny just given him a _hickey_?

Rosier wiped his lips, his eyes wild and startled, his pupils blown. There was something dark and strange in his eyes, something like fascination as he stared at Sirius's neck.

"What the fuck was that?" Sirius said.

Jonny had the nerve to shrug, looking a little sheepish but mostly unashamed. "It's the imprinting thing," he said after a moment. "I couldn't help it."

Sirius eyed him with deep suspicion, but Jonny seemed sincere enough.

Before he could say anything, Jonny pulled away and returned to his desk. He sat down and looked at the old book that lay open on the desk. "Our conversation about magical portraits gave me an idea," he said.

Sirius frowned, thrown by the sudden change of subject, his mind still reeling from the fact that Jonny had just given him a _love bite_. "What?"

"It might be possible to transfer Potter's soul shard into a magical painting," Jonny said.

"You mean..."

Jonny lifted his gaze to him. "James Potter will stay dead, but you will still get your precious James to talk to. He will be a lot more sentient than a regular magical painting--it will really be a version of James Potter rather than a shade of him. Find an artist to create the portrait and I'll do the rest."

Sirius blinked a few times. It wasn't what he had wanted, but it was still better than nothing.

Scratch that, it was so much better than nothing. This way, Remus wouldn't be furious with him for bringing back a dead man, but Sirius would still have a Prongs to talk to, and Harry could actually get to know his first dad without Sirius having to give his son up. It was a perfect solution for everyone involved. Jonny was a fucking genius.

Sirius grinned, strode over to Jonny, and pulled him into a half-hug. "Thanks, mate," he muttered into his hair. "You're the best. Sorry for being an arse."

Jonny rolled his eyes with a long-suffering smile. "Yeah, whatever. Now get out. I still have some research to do. Binding rituals aren't easy. Owl me when you have the painting ready."

When Sirius started pulling away, Jonny grabbed his arm.

"What?" Sirius said distractedly, already thinking about prospective artists. Not many artists would agree to paint a portrait using photographs of a dead man, but money talked...

It took Sirius a moment to notice that Rosier's eyes were fixed on his neck.

"Don't heal it," Jonny said, brushing his thumb against the--

Sirius's face burned. "Fine, you weirdo," he said with a laugh and forced himself to move.

He went to the nearest mirror once he was home.

Sirius stared at the big, obscenely red bite mark on his pale neck, a strange feeling churning in his gut.

He lifted his hand and touched it.

"Sirius?"

Sirius flinched and quickly cast a glamour to hide the bruise-- _the love bite_ , a voice whispered at the back of his mind--before turning to his mother.

"Yes, Mother?" he said.

Walburga frowned. "You look flushed. Are you feeling well?"

"Yes, I'm fine," Sirius said. "I'm--I'm great--yeah." _Get a grip_ , he told himself. It was nothing. Jonny had just gotten carried away. It wouldn't happen again. It meant nothing. Nothing. "Have you seen Harry?"

Walburga looked at him as though he was crazy. "He Flooed to Malfoy Manor this morning. He won't be back until tomorrow."

Sirius flushed again. "Right--he's staying with Draco. I knew that. I just forgot. I think I'll go to bed early. Good night, Mother."

She narrowed her eyes, but he went upstairs before she could ask any questions.

He couldn't handle any questions right now.

He couldn't handle his own thoughts right now, bloody hell.

Sirius closed his bedroom's door and leaned against it heavily, his hand going up to his neck.

He snatched his hand away and curled it into a fist, annoyed with himself.

_Get a fucking grip, Black._


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James Potter is a little confused.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your comments and kudos! I really appreciate them. I'm sorry for not updating sooner. I'm afraid I don't have much time to write fanfiction these days, but I'll try to update faster.

* * *

The thing was, Sirius had been a little afraid that a Portrait James would be nothing like the real James. He had braced himself for disappointment, almost convincing himself that Prongs would be a lot like magical portraits: just a shadow of his former self, not the real thing.

But he had been wrong. It really was James, with his loyal heart, his mischievous smile, and his very perceptive gaze.

 _Too perceptiv_ e, Sirius thought, scowling at the portrait of his dead best friend.

"Moony doesn't approve of this, does he?" Prongs said from where he was sprawled on the grass. Sirius had the artist paint Prongs on the Hogwarts grounds, on a very sunny spring day. There was a comfy-looking bedroll by the tree, as well as Prongs's broom. Never let it be said that Sirius wasn't a thoughtful mate. He hated the thought of Prongs being stuck inside some room all the time; Sirius would hate it if he were in Prongs's shoes.

"Remus... he's coming around," Sirius said, rubbing his temples. Merlin, he wasn't even thirty. Wasn't it a little early to be getting headaches?

James snorted. "You've always been a terrible liar, Padfoot. It's good to see some things never change, even if you're now suddenly best mates with Rosier." He made a face. "How did that happen, by the way? That bloke used to give me the creeps and I don't mean the fact that he stank of dark magic."

Suppressing the urge to defend Jonny, Sirius tried not to frown. "What do you mean?"

James raised an eyebrow. It looked so ridiculous that Sirius couldn't help but smile fondly. He'd forgotten some of Prongs's old mannerisms. This version of Prongs was just seventeen. He hadn't yet outgrown some stupid things they'd thought was "cool" and "grown-up" in their youth.

"I missed you, mate," Sirius said and had to clear his throat when his voice wavered.

Prongs blinked and smiled crookedly, still at that teenage phase when admitting feelings was unmanly and awkward. It made Sirius feel old. Merlin's balls, had he been this young?

"How long have I been dead again?" Prongs said.

"Over six years," Sirius said. Sometimes he still couldn't believe it.

Prongs was quiet for a while. "Rosier told us--wrote to us--how I died, but... it still feels a little surreal. I don't feel dead."

"I'm so sorry, Jamie," Sirius said, looking down at his hands. "It was my--"

"Stop that," James said firmly. "Look at me, Padfoot."

Sirius lifted his gaze and met James's eyes.

James was looking at him seriously, without a trace of his usual smile. Even at seventeen, he already had that steel, that inner strength Sirius had always admired.

"I'm going to say it once and I don't want to hear it again. I don't blame you. It wasn't your fault. We trusted the wrong person. We were betrayed. I'm not going to say that I'm fine with it--I'm not--but I had a lot of time to think about it ever since Rosier told us, and I'm... I'm okay. Looks like I had a few happy years with Lily and..." He smiled, a little sad and a little happy too. "I can't believe she married me and that we had a son together. To me it feels like only yesterday she agreed to our first date."

Sirius didn't know what to say to that. To him, it had been ten years. Merlin, he really felt old.

"Did you and Peter talk?" Sirius said.

James grimaced. "Sort of. It was...weird. It's not like the seventeen-year-old Peter in the map is responsible for his older self...We didn't know what to say to each other. He was...upset, but I could tell that he could see how things could go so wrong." James looked at the sky above. "We didn't talk much after that. He mostly kept away. In the map, it's easy not to be found if you don't want to be." He shrugged. "It's hard to explain. It's not like we were always concious. Time passes differently there." He looked at Sirius and smiled. "Anyway. Don't even think I didn't notice that you didn't answer."

"Answer what?"

James's expression was highly unimpressed. "About Rosier. I get that I'm dead, but why the fuck are you suddenly mates with Rosier? And what's up with this Lord of the Manor shit?" James was eyeing Sirius's traditional wizarding clothes with something like amusement--amusement and bafflement.

Sirius ran a hand through his hair. "Well, I'm the Black heir," he said, hating how defensive his voice sounded. He was a grown man. He shouldn't feel like he had to explain himself to a teenager. "I reconciled with my family." He looked at Prongs, expecting... he didn't know what he'd expected, but Prongs's soft look wasn't it.

"I'm glad for you," James said.

Sirius blinked. "Eh, what?"

James pulled a face. "Don't get me wrong--your family is horrible and bloody crazy--but they are still your family. You always said you hated them, but I could see how much the whole thing bothered you. I'm glad things are better now."

Sirius nodded, his mind reeling. James had never _said_ anything.

"So what about Rosier?"

"What about him?" Sirius said. He distinctly remembered wanting Prongs's help with the... situation with Jonny, but now that they were actually talking, he couldn't imagine asking for it.

"Padfoot."

Sirius sighed, running a hand over his face. All right, what did he have to lose?

"So, here's the thing," Sirius said, avoiding James's gaze. "Rosier and I...we are best mates. Don't ask me how that happened--it just did. We're... we're close."

"As close as us?"

Sirius looked at the ceiling. "Yeah--no. Closer."

There was dead silence in the room. Sirius couldn't make himself look at Prongs.

"Closer?" James said at last, sounding...not hurt, exactly. Baffled. "It's not possible, Pads. We've always been as close as brothers."

Sirius made a face. Brothers. The word still rubbed him the wrong way when he tried to apply it to Jonny. "Jon isn't like a brother to me, but..."

"But he's somehow closer?" James said, still sounding bewildered.

"He's... he touches me a lot." Sirius flushed. Fuck, this was the single most awkward conversation of his life. He cringed, hating his utter inability to describe his friendship with Jonny.

"We touched a lot too," James said, still sounding confused and a little insulted. "We hugged all the time, come on!"

_You definitely didn't give me love bites._

Pushing the thought away, Sirius sighed and decided to just say it as it was. "Jon has a creature blood in him. He imprinted on me when we were kids, which basically means that he needs to touch me." He paused, frowning. "Though, maybe need is the wrong word. He doesn't need to touch me. He wouldn't die without touching me. He just feels better when he does. And I like making him feel good." His face warming, Sirius said quickly, "Because he's my best mate."

Silence.

At last, James said, "Wait, is that why Rosier has always been so creepy about you?"

"He isn't creepy!"

"Maybe he's changed now, but he was definitely very creepy, Padfoot. He _stared_ at you all the bloody time, and I don't mean it in a good way. Sometimes I wasn't sure if he wanted to torture you or eat you. It was super creepy."

Sirius grimaced, running his hand over his warm face. "He didn't change all that much," he said. "But I don't mind."

James stared at him incredulously. "You don't mind? The bloke is a total creep about you, but you don't mind?"

Sirius shrugged. "I'm used to it. I know our friendship isn't the most conventional, but it's okay."

"He's a Dark wizard, Padfoot."

Sirius grimaced on the inside. He could practically hear the capital 'D.' He met James's gaze. "I am, too. I told you that. I told you the things I've done for Harry."

James looked unfazed. "Dark magic is all about intent. Your intentions were good, you did all those dark rituals to save Harry. It doesn't make you a Dark wizard, not like Rosier is--that bloke is the definition of a Dark wizard. I've seen some really disturbing things in that basement of his. You aren't like him, Padfoot."

Sirius clenched his jaw, not at all comforted by James's words. He knew Prongs meant well, but...

"I know he's a Dark wizard," Sirius said tersely. "I don't care."

James gave him a long look. There was no judgment in his gaze, but he seemed...puzzled. "He's married, right?"

"Yeah, to Dalatea Zabini. Remember her? A Slytherin a few years older than us."

James whistled. "She was bloody fit." He flushed, looking abashed. "Not like Lily, of course, but she was, you know..." He leered and waggled his eyebrows.

Sirius snorted, feeling uncomfortably grown-up. It was strange. He still wasn't used to feeling like the mature one between them. "She's considered the most beautiful woman in the Wizarding Europe."

"Rosier is a lucky man," James said.

Sirius scoffed. "She's the lucky one. Jonny is rich, powerful, and gorgeous."

Only when James gave him an odd look did Sirius realize what he'd said. Sirius flushed. "I have eyes!" he said defensively. "Come on, admit it--you aren't blind, mate."

James furrowed his eyebrows. "I suppose," he said after a moment. "I remember Lily choosing him when we all played 'Marry, fuck, or kill' at Frank's birthday party."

Sirius laughed, recalling it now. "You were so pissed off when she chose to kill you."

"She did end up marrying me," James said, still sounding a little awed and dreamy. "And she did shag me if I got her pregnant."

Sirius rolled his eyes. "Oh, she shagged you all right," he said. "You described your sex life to me in lurid detail. It was bloody gross."

James smirked, looking smug and pleased with himself. "You should be grateful, Padfoot. If I shared with you details of our sex life, I'm the best damn friend in the world. Rosier's got nothing on me."

"Well," Sirius said dryly. "Jonny shared his _wife_ with me on their wedding night. I'm sure that wins him the best friend award."

James stared at him with wide eyes. "Eh, what? No offence, Padfoot, but if you asked me to share Lily with you on our wedding night, I would punch you in your balls."

Sirius scoffed. "Lily is the love of your life. Dalatea is just a--" He cut himself off before he could say something he would regret.

James raised an eyebrow. "A what? His wife?"

"He doesn't love her," Sirius said sourly.

"Why would he marry her if he doesn't?"

Sirius shrugged. "He's Lord Rosier. He needs an heir."

Prongs stared at him. "Sometimes you seem like the same Sirius I knew, but sometimes I barely recognize you. It's weird."

Sirius's throat became tight.

_You and Potter were close friends as boys, but the man you've become has different needs. Potter wouldn't even recognize you._

No, Jonny was bloody wrong.

And he was going to prove it.

Sirius let out a laugh. "I did grow up, Prongs. A little. So, do you want to meet Harry?"

Something like hesitation flickered across James's face. "Yeah, sure, just... Not right now, okay?" He gave a sheepish smile. "It's...a bit strange for me, Padfoot. I'm seventeen, I don't know how to be a father to a seven-year-old kid!"

Sirius nodded, feeling a little disappointed--and quite a bit relieved, truth be told. He wasn't sure how Harry would react to James. Hell, he wasn't sure what he would feel if Harry started calling James "Dad." He felt terrible for being so stupidly possessive--Harry was James's son first--but he couldn't change the way he felt.

Jonny would probably laugh at him and tell him _I told you so._

Sirius pushed the thought away, annoyed. Could he stop thinking about Jonny for two bloody minutes? It was getting ridiculous. It was weird enough that Sirius couldn't look at his own neck without getting flustered, even though the love bite--the _bruise_ , dammit--had long been gone.

Fucking hell, he was such a mess.

"Do you want to meet my youngest, then?" Sirius said, trying to push Jonny out of his mind. What was wrong with him, seriously? He was finally reunited with his childhood best mate, with his brother, whom he'd missed all these years like a lost limb. Jonathan Rosier should be the last thing on his mind right now.

But then again, he hadn't seen Jonny in a month. Rosier hadn't attended the latest session of Wizengamot. When Sirius had delivered the finished painting to him, he had been told that Lord Rosier wasn't home. Similarly, the finished portrait of James had been delivered to Sirius by a Rosier house-elf.

If he didn't know better, he'd think Jonny was avoiding him.

Sirius frowned, the corners of his mouth turning down. Of course Jonny wasn't avoiding _him_. He would never do that.

Right?

"James Jonathan, right?" Prongs said, tearing him away from his thoughts.

Sirius perked up. "Yeah, JJ. He's a great kid. A bit of a trouble-maker for a one-year-old--he has his brother chasing him all over the house--but I swear, he learns something knew every day. He's so smart, Prongs! He's--" He cut himself off when he noticed that James was looking at him strangely.

"What?" Sirius said.

James shrugged with a soft smile. "I guess you did grow up," he said. "The Padfoot I knew thought kids were annoying little brats."

Sirius laughed. "They are, but when they're your own, they are significantly less annoying. But mine are great, really. Even Jonny loves them, and Jonny hates kids."

"Does he?" Prongs murmured.

"Yeah," Sirius said, rolling his eyes. "When Harry was little, Jonny used to pretend that he didn't like him, calling him 'Potter's spawn,' but then I caught him bringing Harry Chocolate Frogs when he thought I didn't see." He laughed. "And then he pretended to be offended when Harry started calling him Uncle Jonny, but I bloody knew he secretly loved it."

"Do you know your face changes when you talk about Rosier?"

Sirius's gaze snapped back to James. "What?"

"It does," James said, his expression a little pinched. "It's pretty gross, actually. You become all moony-eyed."

Sirius spluttered, "No, I don't!"

James laughed. "You do. If I didn't know better, I'd think you were besotted with that creep, Padfoot."

Sirius opened his mouth and closed it without saying anything.

Finally, he managed, "Don't be ridiculous. You know I'm straight."

James nodded slowly, looking at Sirius as if he were a puzzle. "Can I ask you a question? Let's say... If you were a bird, would you shag Rosier?"

Sirius barked out a laugh. "What kind of question is it?"

"A hypothetical one. Come on, Padfoot. Just answer it."

Sirius suppressed a grimace. A female version of him would probably look very much like Bellatrix. "Jonny would never be into me even if I were a bird," he said. "He likes them blonde."

"I didn't ask about what he would like. I asked if you would shag him if you were a bird. Just answer it."

"Come on, this is stupid," Sirius grumbled, feeling flustered, hot, and off-balance. He turned away. "We're both blokes, so the point is moot. I'm not sure _what_ your point is."

James sighed. "To be honest, I'm not sure, either. It's just weird, Sirius--your friendship with Rosier."

Sirius almost laughed, balling his hand into a fist to stop it from touching his neck.

_You don't know half of it, mate._

 

***

 

That night, he dreamed of Jonny having sex with Bellatrix.

Even in a dream, it was pretty fucking gross. Sirius wanted to grab his best friend's shoulders and yank him away from that poisonous bitch, who was smirking obnoxiously at Sirius as Jonny pounded into her.

"He's so good, Siri," she cooed. "He feels amazing inside me, so much better than you." She moaned, closing her eyes, her red fingernails dragging down Jonny's muscular back. "Are you jealous, Cousin Dearest? I bet you are. I bet you're dying to be in his place." She opened her eyes and laughed. "Or maybe you're dying to be in mine."

And then the dream shifted, becoming confusing.

A muscular, heavy body was on top of him _(her?)_ , blue eyes searing Sirius as Jonny thrust into him, again and again and again--

Sirius moaned--

And woke up.

He stared at the dark ceiling of his bedroom, disoriented, his heart pounding, his breathing unsteady and his boxers uncomfortably tight.

What the buggering fuck.


End file.
